


The Savage Wolf

by ChristinaS412



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Arranged Marriage, BAMF Lyanna Mormont, Battle Couple, Blood and Violence, Canon-Typical Violence, Developing Friendships, Emotional Hurt, First Kiss, Fix-It, Friends to Lovers, House Mormont, House Stark, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, OT3, POV Arya Stark, POV Rickon Stark, POV Sansa Stark, Political Alliances, Polyamory, Revenge, Rickon Stark Lives, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Wildling Rickon Stark
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-19
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:08:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 28,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22323865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChristinaS412/pseuds/ChristinaS412
Summary: Rickon wasn’t the same little brother Jon remembered from before the war. There’s something unnerving about the way he fights with a blade, and the wildling tattoos that cover his back when he falls asleep shirtless. But Jon should’ve known, a savage takes what they want. Even if that means bedding the two maiden heirs of the great and noble houses Baratheon and Mormont. And Rickon was as savage as his direwolf.____aka: Rickon comes back to Westeros and royally fucks up his family's enemies while falling in love with two headstrong women.
Relationships: Arya Stark/Gendry Waters, Harrold Hardyng/Sansa Stark, Lyanna Mormont & Rickon Stark, Lyanna Mormont/Rickon Stark, Shireen Baratheon/Lyanna Mormont/Rickon Stark
Comments: 104
Kudos: 127





	1. Fear Makes the Wolf

**Author's Note:**

> I've been sitting on this chapter for 3 months when I woke up this morning to my boyfriend excitedly telling me that he proofread the first chapter and thought it was amazing. So shoutout to JJ for the original idea and OT3 inspiration, and special thanks to Dave for being a supportive dork <3 
> 
> \- forewarning: the Shireen/Rickon pairing isn't featured in this chapter, it will come later!

Stepping out onto the rocky Skagosi shores Davos Seaworth resisted the urge to bend and kiss the ground beneath his feet. The voyage north had been brutal, buffs of rain and snow coating the deck of his ship in a thin sheet of ice. The frozen planks that had battered against the reef of sunken ships still rang in his ears.  _ It would be worth it _ , he promised himself, not for the first time. Once he delivered Rickon Stark into Wyman Manderly's hands, and brought the Northern houses to join Stannis’ cause this journey would be worth it. 

Yet his victory against the stormy shores was short lived, having spotted several grey figures starting to pick their way across the shoreline toward his crew. Teeth clenched in anticipation Davos wondered if perhaps he should have sent Marya one last letter before this journey after all. 

“Who goes there?” One man called out, cloaked in furs, and raising a spear as he approached.

This close Davos had to crane his neck to meet his steely gaze. “Davos Seaworth,” He replied, “I’ve come for Rickon Stark,” That prompted a few low chuckles over the howling winds. 

“What’s a sailor doing looking for a savage wolf?” Another voice wondered challengingly.  _ Savage wolf _ ,  _ that was a new one _ , Davos noted cocking his head in thought. Despite his years advising Stannis on the lonely shores of Dragonstone Davos hadn’t been deaf to the rumors surrounding the Starks and their curious companions.  _ Rumors _ , he reminded himself. 

Shrugging off his concern Davos grit his teeth, “I’d like to see him.” That earned a wide grin from the towering Skagosi clansman before the others moved to flank him, grabbing his wrists and tying them tightly with hempen rope. There was no turning back now.

The journey along the shoreline, up the sheer cliffside and into the cavernous mountainside was tiresome. But the frozen winds that had cut through his salt swept cloak were soon replaced by the damp warmth only a maze of caves so deep could provide. A small, fearful, part of him prayed the Skaggisons hadn’t mistaken him for an easy meal. Rumors of cannibalism on the lonely island had fueled campfire conversations for nearly a hundred years. How else would one survive on such barren land?  _ Rumors _ , only rumors. 

Davos didn’t have time to contemplate the idea further when the warrior leading him by his arm stopped at the mouth of a long cavernous hall. Only a few lowly torches lit their way, casting flickering shadows along the jagged stone walls and across the floor to the circle where two men were in the midst of a fight.

At first he ignored their movements, too interested in finding Rickon among the towering wildlings to realize the young Stark was the very same man who had just dodged the wide slashing attack of his Skagosi brother. One thing was for certain, Rickon Stark wasn’t the same fearful child Lord Manderly seemed to think he was. There was something chillingly savage about the way his dual short swords gleamed in the torch light. Pale eyes followed his movements in awe and trepidation; watching as Rickon rolled away from another attack, coating the wildling tattoos that decorated his bare back with dirt, before he cut through the tender spot behind his opponents knee. 

For his part the Skagosi warrior fighting him did his best to ignore the pain as he staggered back, weight dropping to the other foot. But Rickon wasn’t finished, twisting his blades with ease as he turned. It only took a second, his movements so fluid spectators might’ve missed it with the blink of an eye, before he spun and sank his blade into the side of the man's neck bathing them both in a cascade of blood. 

The hall filled with a chorus of cheers, bringing a wolfish grin to Rickon's lips as he wiped the blood from his brow and let the corpse slump into the dirt and blood by his feet. 

_ A savage indeed _ . The thought unsettled Davos as the group shoved him forward to meet the young Stark.

“This sailor came looking for you,” One man explained wasting no time when Rickon finally came to greet them. 

“Is that so?” Up close it was easy to tell him apart from the others. His unruly auburn curls hung low across his face, nearly hiding the bright blue eyes from the firelight. He looked so much like his lady mother the day she had come to treat with Renly and Stannis along the windswept countryside of Storms End. 

“It is, my Lord.” Davos cough, ducking his head customarily, remembering his manners.

“There’re no Lords here sailor, only Gods, men and the Magnar.” Rickon quipped with a thick Skagosi accent, accepting a grey cloak from a woman with an easy smile. “Even if there were, I’m the last to be Lord of anything” He added, casting Davos a suspicious look. 

“That may be so -,” the old man agreed, trying failing to find the words to explain the situation despite being tied and held between two threatening clansmen. “I’m sorry is there a place we might speak in private, my Lor-?”

“Rickon,  _ just _ Rickon.” The young man corrected sliding his swords back into their hilts before waving away the guards. 

“Rickon,” Davos relented, “you brothers… I had hoped news might’ve traveled this far North, but they’ve been murdered.” Pausing to gather his words carefully, “You’re the last living heir of Winterfell,  _ Lord _ and  _ Warden of the North. _ ”

If it affected him at all the young man did a good job hiding his pain, only a subtle twitch of his jaw proved the words hadn’t fallen on deaf ears. “And you’re here to take me home is that it?”

“Yes, -well no.” Clenching his fist in frustration at his lack of preparation Davos swallowed thickly. “I was asked to bring you to white harbor.”

“Who hired you?” the ice in Rickons voice caught his attention.

There was no use hiding it, and by the looks of the dead man still lying on the floor in a pool of his own blood Davos didn’t want to be caught lying. “Lord Manderly.”

“And why would this Lord Manderly want you to bring me to white harbor?” The boy was right to be suspicious with the ransom Ramsay had set on his head. 

“Because you’re the heir to his liege lord.” Davos tried to explain before throwing caution to the wind, “War is coming to the North, whether they want it to or not.” Raising his bound hands Davos tried to reason with him, “Manderly won’t act until he knows you’re safe in the North.” 

“Sounds like a dead man’s wish,” Rickon mused, wiping the blood from his hands on the patchwork of black fabric that made up his pants. 

Confused by the sudden turn in conversation Davos cocked his head to one side, “I’m sorry?”

“Why should I leave? Here, I have loyal men, enough women to warm my bed, and food to feast through winter.” Rickon pointed out. The realization struck Davos then. Rickon was right, there was no bargaining the past with the present. He had built a place for himself here among the outcasts of the North. 

“If not for yourself, for your sister.” It was a shot in the dark, the boy had surely been an infant when he had last seen his family. But if his time with the Northmen in White harbor had taught him anything Davos knew their sense of family ran bone deep. 

“What of her?” Rickon wondered curiously, peering out beneath the fringe of curly auburn hair.. 

“Roose Bolton plans on marrying Arya to his bastard son Ramsay before Winter. And Winter is-”

“- _ Coming _ , I know.” Rickon sighed rolling his eyes, “Famous last words,” clearly having enough of the conversation he turned. “If Arya is the same sister I remember, give her a bow and she’ll make work of anyone that tells her what to do.” With that he stood, flicking his hand at the guards in a gesture that could only mean one thing. 

“When I saw you kill that man I mistook you for a fighter,” Davos spat, heart pounding in desperation as he pointed at the corpse still slumped in a pool of congealed blood. Stannis and Wyman be damned, he would not die on this barren island. “What kind of fighter backs away from a war?”

Oh that had pushed more than a few buttons. Rickon’s hands had balled into fists, his shoulders stiff with only a thin veil of patience to stave off his anger. “Careful old man.”

Why should I be? I’ve got no life left to live, Davos thought sourly, “If you don’t come back to White Harbor, Westeros will take you for the coward you are, hiding away in these halls like some _gutter rat._ ”

“Coward?” Rickon asked seething as he spun on his heels to face him. “What about the cowards cut my fathers head off for treason?” His shoulders shook with fury, “Or the cowards that burned two village boys when Bran and I escaped?” Sucking in a long breath the fire in his eyes only burned stronger, “Don’t talk to me about being a coward when I’ve done what I’ve had to do to survive.”

“-As long as the Boltons hold Winterfell, and your sister, you’re not safe.” Davos insisted refusing to let up. “The moment they find out you’re alive, that you’re here of all places, they’ll ask for your head.”

“I’d like to see the man who wants my head try to take it from my shoulders.” Rickon all but snarled. 

“Then why not take his instead?” Davos argued. “These men you’re fighting here. They’re worth nothing compared to the Boltons.” Letting his shoulders drop in resignation Davos paused, “Lord Manderly holds a host of Northmen ready to follow you North to Winterfell.. Go with them, prove to them you’re no coward and take back your  _ home _ .”

Rickon paused, eyes flitting around the hall for a moment before they landed carefully on Davos. In another life the boy would have grown up in fine fabrics eating at high tables, yet here he was, stinking of fish and mud in the Skagosi caves covered in another mans blood. Perhaps it had been for the best. It had kept him safe despite the ruthlessness of his warrior brothers. Growing up here might not have been easy, but it was far less dangerous than what would greet them on the mainland. 

“I’ll come with you, but when it’s over you can have your bloody northern castle. I’m no one’s Lord.” Rickon finally agreed, cutting the ropes that bound Davos’s wrists together. 

Well it was better than nothing, Davos considered, at least he hadn’t been murdered.

————————-

It took some more bargaining and nearly being sacrificed as a gift to the Gods by one of the clansman before Davos was safely returned to his ship with Rickon and four Skagosi men. He wasn’t an overly religious man by any means, but between the youngest Stark, the ruthless sea, and the wildlings that surrounded him, Davos prayed he would survive this journey. 

The plan was simple enough, they would risk docking at a port near Karhold for the night before spending the following day sailing along the coastline toward White Harbor. Davos would have preferred smuggling Rickon under the cover of night but with the added men he wouldn’t chance getting caught if the rumors about the Ironborn fleet were true. 

“You sure this is going to work old man?” Rickon asked, standing beside him at the stern hands tucked into his furs. 

It would have been easy to lie to him, to say he knew what he was doing. But something about the piercing blue Tully eyes watching him under the grey sunlight brought out his honesty. “No my Lor-,” Pausing he corrected himself, “Rickon.” catching the look from his companion. “I’m not.” Gripping the ships wheel for reassurance Davos watched as the men below them began to churn the oars pushing them back out into the open ocean and ever so slightly into the wind. 

“I am,” Rickon mused thoughtfully, picking the conversation back up as he glanced back at the rocky shores behind them.  _ Did he regret his decision? _

Regardless the Stark seemed to have enough confidence for the both of them, because Davos wasn’t so certain. “You should get below deck,” He suggested instead, changing the subject, “We’ll be killed for treason if we’re caught. The last thing we need is Ironborn finding you.”

“If we get caught..” The young man agreed, lips twitching in a slight frown before his easy going manner returned. “I’ve lived this long old man.” Clapping the smuggler on the shoulder reassuringly before he made his way back below deck with the rest of his men. 

_________   
  


The sun had begun to filter through the overcast sky by the time the north eastern coast rose like a black knife against the horizon. The few fishermen that had passed them on their sciffs had left them well enough alone, but with each passing minute the fear of getting caught grew. 

Reminding himself to ease off gripping the wheel the smuggler tried his best not to think about all the ways the Boltons would torture them.  _ Rickon was only a child the last time anyone had seen him, _ he told himself over and over. If anyone saw him now they would only see a wildling savage, and untamable _skagg_ , worth less than the dirt under their shoe. Which was an entirely different problem. 

Taking care to dock along the shoreline near the Karhold port Davos’s men tied off his ship while he stepped below deck. “I’m going into town to look for -

“I’m coming with you,” Rickon interrupted, rolling out of his hammock to stand among his men with a hatchet in one hand. 

Gritting his teeth to keep his honest opinions to himself Davos cocked his head to one side, “I think that would be...  _ unwise _ … we don’t know who might be looking for you in town.” 

“I’m going.” It wasn’t a question, the northern stubbornness bleeding through his accent. “They’ve hunted me my whole life. I’m not going to cower on this ship now.”

Considering his options Davos relented with a deep sigh, “Fine. But they stay here,” pointing at their Skagosi passengers. Pausing to look through his possessions Davos found a sea-weathered black cloak. “Put this on. Last thing we need is some idiot asking questions about those furs.” 

With that he left Rickon to change, gripping the bag around his neck to calm his racing nerves. Wyman hadn’t said anything about bringing the boy into a Northern town off the coast. There was a thousand ways this wouldn’t work.

His thoughts were interrupted by Rickon stepping onto the deck, the black cloak cinched around his neck, the hood covering his tell tale auburn hair.  _ Good _ , Davos thought. “Are you ready?”

Offering him a stiff nod Davos led him off the plank onto the dock. “Shut up, keep your head down, and stay out of sight. Do you hear me?” 

Rickon only nodded, earning a thin lipped smile from Davos.  _ At least the kid was smart _ , he thought grimly. With that they made their way up the shoreline toward the small town. 

________

Entering the first pub they could find that wasn’t packed with whores and sailors Davos shoved Rickon to a small table near the back corner away from prying eyes. “I’ll be back. Keep your mouth shut in the meantime.” He warned before he left to order them a few drinks from the barmaid. 

At first Rickon intended to do just that, more interested in watching the Northmen that filtered in and out of the inn, than speaking to anyone. Most were bald old men with greying beards and cloaks that matched the one Davos had him wear. But a few patrons stuck out to a watchful eye. 

A young boy, sitting near the door, around his age, with a black leather jerkin and some sort of embroidered design on his chest, holding a beer.  _ Strange _ , Rickon considered before turning his attention to the other patron. A man, clean shaven and a few years older, dressed in fine furs, sitting at the bar with two others seemed far more interested in a particular woman than the food in front of them.  _ Creeps _ , he scoffed. Only then did his eyes focus in on the woman they were watching, except she was already looking at him as she made her way to him. 

Everything about her radiated nobility, from the carefully plaited hair to the simple black fur cloak fastened to her jerkin with a silver broach shaped like a bear. Yet there was an air of nervousness in the way she hesitated, fingers brushing against his table top before she moved to sit across from him.  _ Interesting _ . 

“Rickon Stark?” she questioned, her voice barely above a whisper. 

Curiosity got the best of him, throwing caution to the wind Rickon tilted his head to meet her gaze, “Depends on who’s asking.”

“Lyanna Mormont, of bear island.” She replied, breaking eye contact for a moment to make sure they were alone before she continued. “We’ve come to take you home.”

Eyebrows knit together Rickon followed her gaze around the room, “We?” Davos hadn’t told him anything about being caught by beautiful women, he was sure he would’ve remembered that. 

“A little far from home aren’t we m’lady?” Davos spoke up behind them interrupting her before she could elaborate.  _ Speak of the devil _ . 

If his presence surprised her, she didn’t show it. Instead her eyes narrowed, one hand dropping beneath the table as she looked up at Davos questioningly, “and you are?”

“Ser Davos Seaworth,” He hadn’t moved, still holding two tankards of ale as he glared at Rickon accusingly. 

“Ser Davos I’m here-,” 

“We were just leaving,” Davos interrupted again ignoring her in favor of setting down the drinks to grip Rickon by his upper arm. 

But the young Stark didn’t budge, rooted to his seat as he waited for her to finish. “Let her speak,” Rickon insisted warningly when Davos tightened his grip. 

“There were rumors of your return. I had to come see for myself,” Lyanna explained. 

“If you’re here to kill him best get on with it.” Davos muttered, his annoyance getting the best of him for once as he released his grip on Rickons arm. 

That seemed to shake her, if only for a moment, before her brown eyes narrowed. “Kill him? I’m here to pledge my house to his cause and take back Winterfell.”

Rickon couldn’t hide the sly grin that slipped across his lips at that. Turning to raise an amused eyebrow at Davos, “she wanted to pledge her house to  _ my cause, _ ” he reiterated taking the opportunity to rub in his small victory.

“That’s all good and well, but-”

“Too bad you’re a little late, Davos here is taking me to White Harbor instead,” Rickon interrupted before the sailor could get his word in. Something about this girl caught his interest, but there was still a chance that she was lying. What better way than to test her pledge than with the truth? 

“White harbor?” Lyanna questioned, eyeing them in confusion.

“Seems you’re not the only one interested in meeting me,” Rickon mused, picking up one of the tankards and taking a long sip. He might as well drink if they were going to stay here. 

Frustrated with their conversation, and clearly nervous about being overheard Davos cut in before they could continue, “Perhaps we should return to the ship.”

“If you leave now the Boltons will catch and execute him.” Lyanna retorted casting a look back to the boy sitting by the door. She knew more than she was letting on. Looking at the boy over her shoulder again Rickon scoffed, eyes rolling in dry amusement. “Let them try.” 

“Stannis murdered his own brother for the crown. He’ll do the same to anyone that challenges him.” Lyanna insisted. Davos quieted at that. Maybe she wasn’t the only one holding back information, Rickon considered. 

Setting the tankard down he leaned forward, “Why are you really here?”

“For you.” Lyanna repeated, dark brown eyes staring back at him.

“I find that hard to believe. No ones come for me in years.” Rickon countered, lowering his voice, “now suddenly both of you find me?”

Davos moved to interrupt again when Lyanna cut in, “I came out of courtesy  _ my Lord _ .” Words slipping out between clenched teeth. “You’re the last of a dying house. But if you want your head on a spike so badly, be my guest.” Leaning back in her seat she straightened her shoulders, “I may not come from a large house, but we are sworn by loyalty to protect yours.”

Rickon smiled, taking a tankard of ale and knocking the rest of it back. Wiping his lip with his sleeve Rickon mirrored her posture across the table, “I don’t want Winterfell, but I’ll tell you what, If you can best me in a dual, I’ll help you take back your precious little castle for you.”

“Come again?” Davos finally interjected unable to hold his tongue any longer.

“She heard me,” Rickon insisted. “Dual me. If you win, I’ll help you kill the Bolton bastard and whoever else you want  _ dead _ .” 

Davos stilled at that, watching Lyanna as skepticism turned her lips into a frown, “And if you win?”

Rickon shrugged, “If I win, you’ll warm my bed tonight.” He replied nonchalantly.

Her frown slipped into a downright glare as Davos floundered for words.  _ She’s going to slit my throat _ , Rickon thought idly as he grinned at her reaction. 

“Don’t be absurd boy, she’s the lady of a noble house.”

“And I’m her  _ liege lord _ , what of it?” Rickon retorted mocking his title even as he used it to goad her, his eyes trained on hers as he answered Davos’s concern. 

“If I win you’ll kill the Boltons  _ and _ you’ll supply Bear Island with enough fighting men and ships to protect us against raiders until winter ends.”

“Alright.” he agreed, taking her comment as silent agreement, still daring her to back out. 

“Fine,” Lyanna relented surprising everyone as she shoved her chair, “there’s a secluded clearing in the woods. Follow me.” Standing she turned, making her way through tables toward the back of the inn.

Sparing Davos a half hearted apologetic look Rickon stood, downing the last of his drink and clapping Davos on the shoulder, “I’ll be back.” Before following her and stepping through a small back door out into the street. It still felt strange breathing in fresh air after he had spent so much time in the caves, but he welcomed the distant smell of sea salt. 

The sun had set since their arrival, leaving only a few stray rays of silver moonlight filtering through the clouds to light their path. From behind Lyanna walked with a purpose, her black cloak billowing in the coastal breeze as she made her way past drunken sailors through alleys toward the tree-line. 

Careful not to twist an ankle in the undergrowth of the Northern forest Rickon felt his heartbeat quicken with anticipation. Something about these woods felt all too familiar, like he had been here before. The strong scent of pine overwhelmed his senses against the eerily silent backdrop.  _ Fear makes the wolf bigger _ , Osha had told him once when they had first arrived on Skagos and answered to House Magnar. Don’t be afraid, she would whisper. A  _ wolf isn’t afraid of the dark _ , he would say back. Again and again until he fell asleep in her arms. But that was a years ago, before she had fallen ill and he had become a Magnar of his own right. 

_ What’s there to be afraid of here? _ He asked himself stubbornly, unsettled by the sudden nostalgia when he finally stepped out into the clearing behind Lyanna.  _ She was just a girl, too well groomed in the art of being a lady to know the sting of a blade _ , he reasoned. Rickon had fought his fair share of women on Skagos, each as fierce as the next, but none as beautiful as her when her cloak dropped to pool around her feet. One thing was certain, experience or not, Lyanna Mormont was nothing like the Skagosi women he grew up with. 

Drawing her sword from its sheath with a single minded precision, Lyanna turned to face him. 

Taking her cue Rickon undid the knot around his throat, letting his own cloak fall to the forest floor before drawing the dual falchion blades from their hilts. Osha had stolen them on their journey north. Now the castle forged steel glinted in the moonlight as he spun it in his palm. 

In three easy strides he crossed the space between them, bringing his twin blades down at the same time that Lyanna blocked with the broadside of her sword. Meeting his gaze with a look of determination she pushed him away, regaining her footing before twisting her sword to jab him. 

“You’re good,” Rickon smirked, deflecting her attack with one hand as the other forced her to duck with a swipe. “You said you're a Mormont… from bear island?” 

To focused on blocking his attacks to reply Rickon took her silence as another agreement. “So fierce for such a little bear.” A part of him, the part Osha had raised, knew better than to taunt her. But after the day he had it felt good to push Lyanna’s buttons. The man’s death earlier had been too quick, Rickon was intent on  _ enjoying _ this. 

“Is it true your family are skinchangers?” He wonders, his own thoughts drifting to Shaggy as he swept at her legs to keep her off balance. Dismissing the memory of his direwolf Rickon continued, “I heard your family beds with bears.”

Spying her concentration in the way her jaw was clenched in anger he smiled. Oh he was getting under her skin.  _ Good _ , Rickon thought pushing forward one more time with a few more steps and kicking her feet out from underneath her. “Not even a word?” he wondered staring at her form lying in the dirt under the moonlight. “You’re no fun.”

In one fluid motion Lyanna kicked his ankle, catching him by surprise “I’m not little.” The action caused him to fall to his knees next to her as her blade came up to meet his throat. “The only thing we  _ skin _ is our food.” Sitting up she hit him in the side of the head with the pommel of her sword, forcing him to release his blades to catch his weight as he fell forward. With a final twist she rolled with him until she sat crouched above him while he cradled his head. Seven hells she was good, Rickon thought despite the dull headache. 

“And bedding bears is better than wolves” Lyanna added one hand still holding the point of her sword to his throat from above.

Rickon couldn’t help it, the image of her, clad in black hovering above him caused something to stir in him. Leaning up into the edge of the sword Rickon offered her a sly smile, “Oh, you’ve bedded wolves then?”

“No.” The answer left her lungs in a rush, to exhausted from the fight to consider the way the sound conjured images in his mind. 

They were only a hair apart now, her black hair framing his face as if to shut out the rest of the world.  _ It would be easy _ , he thought, eyeing her lips still pink from where she had bitten them in concentration. 

Ignoring all reason Rickon closed the gap pressing a soft kiss to her lips without second thought or consideration. Even the sting of steel as it cut his skin didn’t deter him. 

The moment was over as quickly as it had begun, shoving herself off of him Lyanna’s eyes were blown wide with surprise. Though she still possessed enough sense to keep the edge of her sword pointed at him as she backed away. 

After a moment of silence, once she was sure he wouldn’t move again, Lyanna sheathed her sword. “I won.”

“You did,” he agreed quietly, dusting himself off as he rolled to stand up, somewhat stunned from the kiss. 

“So you’ll take back Winterfell?,” Lyanna questioned. He couldn’t fault her for the distrust. 

“Yes,” Rickon agreed again, focusing on retrieving the falchion swords from where he had dropped them instead of thinking about the feel of her weight over him. 

“You’re lying.” Lyanna probed, tying her cloak around her shoulders again and giving him a knowing look when he glanced up to look at her. 

“I will take back Winterfell,  _ after _ I sail to White Harbor.” Rickon clarified. 

_ There it was again _ , the glare as if looking at him like that would make him go up in flames. But there was something else now in her gaze, something he couldn’t quite place. The women he had been with on Skagos had never looked at him like that. 

“I’m coming with you.” The tone in her voice brooked no argument.

“What?” confused by the sudden change, Rickon shook his head, “No. I’m already putting the old man in enough trouble.”

“He’s dead either way, the least you could do is accept my help.” Lyanna retorted, “or did you forget you’re in the North? The Boltons’ hounds won’t stop until they find you.”

Stunned at her words Rickon fell into step behind her, considering her proposition as they made their way back to the Inn. She had a point, they could use the men if they got into trouble and she knew more about these woods than he did, even though it irked him to admit it. 

When they finally spotted Davos waiting anxiously by the tree-line behind a forgotten smithy, Lyanna paused in front of him. “My men and I are coming with you,” adjusting the hood of her cloak to hide her face from strangers passing by. 

Sharing Davos’s look of disbelief Rickon decided to go with the decision, shrugging in consolation, “she wanted to help...” he offered. 

Shooting Rickon a sour look Davos gave them both a skeptical nod, rubbing his hands together in thought, “we could use the swords, but it’s best we get back to the boat now before anyone else finds out we’re-.”

“Lady Mormont,” One of the bearded men from the bar earlier stepped into view, carrying a bow over one shoulder. Reaching out to grab her arm, Rickon raised his sword at him, prepared to intervene before Lyanna laid a hand on the steel. 

“What is it?” 

“Bolton men raided the docks, not long after they landed.” Casting a dubious look at Davos and Rickon the man continued, “it isn’t safe here.”

“My ship?” Davos whispered in disbelief. 

“Burned,” The man confirmed.

Adrenaline pumping through his veins it took him a moment before his thoughts caught up with reality but suddenly Rickon surged forward, grabbing the man by the scruff, “My men. Where are they?”

“The  _ Skaggs _ were taken captive,” the man replied coldly, his eyes narrowing as Rickons raised his sword threateningly. 

“Rickon,” Lyanna spoke up behind them. “I’m sorry about them, but there’s nothing we can do. We have to go.  _ Now _ .” 

Spinning on his heels Rickon let the man go, watching him drop to his knees coughing in his peripheral. “They’re my  _ men _ .” 

“They’re wildings,” the man rephrased, glaring up at Rickon from where he knelt. 

“Wildlings that saved my life more times than any of you have,” Rickon snapped back losing his temper as he pointed his sword at his companions. 

Just then a group of men passed them, sparing the group a few suspicious looks. Davos seized the moment to grab Rickon's arm, forcing his sword down to his side. “We’ll find your men,  _ after _ we go to White Harbor.”

“Ser Edwine,” Lyanna added turning towards the bearded man, “round up the men, we’ll be escorting Rickon and Ser Davos South."

“Yes m’lady,” Edwine bowed and left, sparing Rickon one last look over his shoulder. 

Grabbing Rickons sleeve and waving Davos to follow them Lyanna passed through the shadows of the buildings along the muddy path until the stench of horse shit filled the air. In front of them three horses neighed quietly where they had been tied to a post outside the run down stable. 

Hesitating when Lyanna offered him the reigns of a chestnut stallion Rickon looked up at the beast. Davos had already mounted a garrison to his left and offer the young Stark a hand up when Lyanna realized his reluctance. 

“Here,” moving past him she mounted his steed before turning in his saddle to offer him a hand. 

“I’ll just walk,” Rickon insisted. He would rather walk than admit he had never learned to ride a horse. Skagos was small and barren, and he had lived most of his life in the rocky caverns of it’s mountains. The last time he had seen a horse had been the same day he had last seen Bran, Hodor, and the Reeds.  _ Fuck _ , he hadn’t thought about that day in years. He could hardly remember his brothers face, but the fear he had felt leaving him on the road had never left him. The memory settled like a serpent in the pit of his stomach. Fuck, Rickon cursed all seven gods to the the seven hells for bringing these memories back. 

Gritting his teeth Rickon accepted Lyanna’s hand, lifting himself into the saddle behind her with silent determination. Without warning she snapped the reins, forcing Rickon to wrap his arms around her to keep himself from falling, as the stallion lurched forward into the tree-line behind Davos.  _ Fear might make the wolf bigger, but I’m no ordinary wolf.  _


	2. Haunted by Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dreams and forgotten shadows seem to follow the young Stark where ever he goes when a sudden ambush leaves the group on edge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Proud of the imagery in this chapter - I didn't want to rush posting it because I really struggled with the dialogue and characterization. But it turned out the way I wanted, hope you enjoy!

The world fell silent around him as he stalked through the undergrowth. _Fear,_ the scent hung heavily in the damp morning air. The townsmen never left the comfort of their stone homes, strange that they would do so now. Pausing at the edge of a clearing, the light filtered through the canopy above warming him in the shadows. He remembered this place, but something had changed. There it was again, that scent hidden under the stench of fear, _a ghost_. The sound of the townsmen closing in stole his attention. Stomach twisting hungrily as a rush of fury crawled along his spine, he swayed impatiently. Their fear hung like a thick cloud of late summer rain. 

Green eyes narrowed as one man spotted him. Leaping from the shadows, he relished the feel of his jaws closing down around their throat as the other scrambled away. Patience wearing thin he peeled his lips back in a menacing snarl, rounding on the second man. _Food_. 

* * *

Startled, Rickon nearly lost his grip on Lyanna’s scabbard as he woke in the swing of the saddle. Raising his palm to rub the last of his exhaustion from his face he swallowed thickly, trying to shake the memory of the man’s dying scream. 

“You alright?” Lyanna wondered, glancing over her shoulder to peer up at him as she steered the stallion through the thick undergrowth. 

“Fine,” Rickon muttered, ignoring the taste of blood in his mouth. It had only a dream, the clearing must have been from his duel with Lyanna a few nights past. _A dream_ , but the lingering thrill of the hunt made him shudder. It had been years since his last wolf dream, shortly after Osha had forced him to leave Shaggydog behind on the shores of Westeros not far from that town. 

Was it possible that the direwolf had sensed his return? The thought was as comforting as it was terrifying. 

Rousing himself, Rickon thought he caught sight of shadows slinking through the forest around them. Stiffening instinctually, he reached for his pommel when Lyanna looked over her shoulder again. 

“Those are my men,” Lyanna explained, sensing his discomfort before he could warn her. There had to be more than half a dozen swords following them on foot and horse. But the idea of being surrounded by strangers unsettled him all the same. It reminded him all too much of what likely happened to his own men on the docks. 

Letting go of her hip Rickon slid clumsily off of the horse in a desperate attempt to keep the world from spinning as his dream lingered. Ignoring Lyanna and Davos’s concerned looks, Rickon turned to survey the trees around them instead, “Where are we?” he tried to remember the path he had taken with Osha but could only recall the fragmented moments of fear as they hurried through the undergrowth. 

Shrugging as he dismounted Davos offered Lyanna a small drink of water, “I’m no Northman but if I had to guess, I’d imagine we’ve passed the Last Hearth and the Last River by now.” 

_Good_ , at least one of them was keeping track. He felt out of his element here, lost and confused like the lost pup he had been years ago. “But how far from the sea?” Rickon wondered again, twisting on his heels to see if he could spot the expanse of blue on the horizon. 

“A few leagues, at most.” Lyanna chimed in, accepting a small piece of bread from Edwine thankfully. She corked the water, before offering some to Rickon. 

Sparing Edwine a questionable look Rickon drank, savoring it as much as he could despite the stale flavor. 

“What exactly are you looking for?” Davos wondered, perplexed by Rickon’s concern. 

“These people hunting us…the Boltons, where are they from?” Rickon replied vaguely remembering his escape. 

“The Dreadfort.” Lyanna interjected, catching the meaning of his worry as she turned toward the knights, “Rickon’s right. Their scouts know these woods better than any of us.”

“What would you have us do my lady?” Ser Edwine asked.

“It’ll take longer but if we follow the shore we might avoid the worst of it,” Davos offered thoughtfully. 

“We don’t have time,” Lyanna argued, frowning at the idea. 

Considering their options Rickon shook his head, “I’ll keep my end of the bargain, but I can’t do it from the grave. We need to reach White Harbor, if we hope to take back your castle.”

“The boy has a point,” Edwine muttered, earning a sharp glare from Rickon. It was one thing for an elder to call him that, another to hear it from a man a head shorter than him. 

He had only meant to earn her approval, but somehow his words only made it worse, “Do what you like my _Lord_ , it’s not my land they stole.” With that she spun, making her way back to the horses before mounting and galloping off. 

“Don’t worry lad, she’ll come back.” Edwine chuckled, clapping Rickon on the shoulder before he could shrug him off. Grumbling Rickon watched as the group dispersed. That wasn’t what he was afraid of. 

* * *

In the end Edwine had been right, Lyanna returned just as Rickon had begun to seriously consider the possibility of having to ride with Davos. The idea was as laughable as it was embarrassing, if only he hadn’t declined the chance of having his own mount. She didn’t seem any happier as he climbed into the saddle behind her and Rickon struggled to figure out what it had been that set off her. The Skagosi women he had shared beds with were all relatively simple, easy to anger and easier still to please once he knew what he had done wrong. But Lyanna remained steadfast in her silence. 

By midday on the second day they had just forded the Weeping River when a fletched arrow whistled past. Sparing Davos a sidelong questioning look it dawned on Rickon as a second arrow passed overhead. Whoever these men were, their attack had not been a mistake. Rickon dug his heels into the steed with the realization, urging the beast forward and back under the cover of the tree-line. 

“What are you doing!” Lyanna demanded as she fought for control,seconds before they came across five foot soldiers. “ _Shit_.”

On instinct Rickon let go of her scabbard, haphazardly sliding off the saddle and onto the slick ground with a soft thud. If he hadn’t been so focused on avoiding the rearing stallion behind him as he turned to face the men, Rickon might’ve pointed out that he liked when she cursed. Brandishing his falchion swords as the first man came charging forward Rickon leaned away from the attack, side stepping the man’s move before stabbing him in the gut. 

Enjoying the feel of a good fight, he made quick work of the second and turned to meet the third when the glimpse of Lyanna’s figure, muddied with fighting and pinned beneath another soldier, caught his eye. 

“Rickon!” Caught up in his own concern he nearly missed the third and fourth soldier before it was too late. Feeling a sword cut through the material of his cloak and slice through his shoulder Rickon grunted. The chaos around him quieted suddenly, vision narrowing as he spun to greet his attacker. High on adrenaline and angry at his own stupidity Rickon cut the man from gut to ear. He had let her in under his skin, something that could’ve cost him a lot more than a sore shoulder. 

Turning to face the other man Rickon snarled when the man’s scream quieted and choked with a bubble of blood as Lyanna sank her blade through his throat from behind. Her carefully plaited hair had fallen loose again in the fight, leaving her with an air of wildness that suited her. _Not the time_ , Rickon thought darkly, berated his wandering thoughts as the last soldier started to run from them. 

Despite the advantage of chainmail for combat, one thing quickly became clear, the heavy metal was less than ideal for sprinting. Chasing the man down, Rickon grabbed the man by the back of his collar sending them both sprawling onto the riverbank. Recovering quickly, Rickon yanked the man by the roots of his hair, dragging him to the edge of the weeping river as the man pleaded for his life. _“_ Who are you?”, Rickon snapped, pressing his blade to the man's throat. 

“You’ll die for this!” The man screeched fingers blindly trying to pry Rickon's fingers from his hair. 

“Who do you work for?” Rickon asked again, clenching his teeth as he tightened his grip, bringing tears to the man's eyes. 

“They’re Bolton scouts,” Lyanna’s voice broke through the haze as she paused on the banks of the river behind him. Taking a good look at the man lying on the ground beneath him Rickon felt the anger in him swell. _These men killed my family… They meant to kill me too_. Lips peeled back in distaste, he watched as his blade opened the man's throat into the river. His anger dissipating as the current carried the red ribbon of blood down stream. 

Behind him Lyanna’s boots crunched along the stoney shore. “You’re hurt.” 

Glancing over his shoulder Rickon felt the wound sting at her words, “‘M fine,” he replied gruffly bending to wipe his blades off on the dead man's cloak before sheathing them. 

“We should keep moving” Casting a look around the shoreline he took stock of four other bodies, whether they were more dead enemies he couldn’t say, regardless he wasn’t keen on staying long enough to find out. Spying Davos watching them from the distance Rickon brushed past her, pushing Lyanna to follow him back to their mount, “come on.”

* * *

By the time dusk settled the ache in Rickons shoulder had begun to radiate outwards. Experience had taught him that he would have to wash it soon before infection took hold, but after the fight at the riverbank the group had pushed through their exhaustion in their hurry to reach White Harbor. 

As if she sensed his thoughts, Lyanna pulled the reins up, bringing the group to a halt. Thankful for the silent agreement, he slid off the saddle with a groan. He was beginning to trust the great lumbering beast with each day. Patting its hide affectionately as Lyanna dismounted beside them she offered him a sour smile, “I could use a drink.”

Rickon chuckled, reaching into his leather jerkin to offer her a small flask he had managed to smuggle this far. “Here.”

Eyebrow slanted upwards in curiosity she took a tentative sip before her nose scrunched in disgust, “What _is_ that?”

“Skagosi ale,” Rickon laughed taking a sip for himself before putting the cork back in and tucking it away. 

“Seven hells,” she muttered, coughing slightly as she waved the smell away. “It’s awful.”

“Osha used to say it was an _acquired_ taste,” Rickon smiled remembering the first time the wildling woman had offered him a drink to soothe the pain as she mended his broken arm. She had looked after him for so long he could hardly remember a time before she had come into his life. 

“Osha?” Lyanna wondered, brown eyes peering up at him curiously. 

“Ah-,” Pausing he shook his head, “She’s nothing.” Rickon replied, deciding to keep his memories of Osha to himself for the time being when he caught Edwine watching them. He knew how he must look to these Northmen, his _brothers_ men. He wasn’t an idiot. They had expected a Lord's son and had gotten a wildling boy instead. _Let them_ , he thought bitterly. They could hate him if they liked, he didn’t care, so long as he didn’t tarnish his memories of Osha and Skagos with their foul opinions. 

“I’m going to take a piss.” With that he left her as the men set up camp around them. 

Following the sound of a stream bubbling nearby Rickon picked his way through the undergrowth, remembering his dream of Shaggy as he went. The last he had seen his direwolf he had been a child fleeing along the northern shoreline to a ship meant for Braavos. It couldn’t have been more than a hundred leagues from where they were now. Osha had lost a finger trying to separate the two, seven hells knew what would happen if he ever found Shaggy again. Remembering the black shadow of his dreams Rickon felt an odd sense of comfort wash over him at the idea. He missed Shaggy. 

Finally finding the small stream feeding into a larger pond Rickon felt the tension leave his shoulders. Unlacing his jerkin and pulling the rough spun linen shirt over his head he unbuttoned his breaches and kicked off his boots before wading into the water carefully. The water was freezing, raising the hair on his arms and causing his toes to curl as he forced himself further in. It was nothing in comparison to the pools of seawater he had bathed in on Skagos that had nearly given him salty frostbite

Ducking beneath the water Rickon washed himself, careful to scrub the mud and blood that still coated his skin from the Skagosi fight and Bolton ambush. Beneath it all the black ink of his tattoos shone like dragon glass in the moonlight. Each spiraling line marked a victory. The thought brought a small smile to his lips remembering the Magnar cheering at his first fight in the caves. It had been a close one, having knocked out his opponent just moments before his own broken arm had caused him to faint. The very same night that Osha had given him ale for the first time to numb the pain as she worked to set his arm back in place. 

Eyes drifting along the charcoal ink to the shape of her name carved into his forearm Rickon felt his heart ache. Osha had been the only mother he had ever known, no matter how many others told him about his lady mother. _Catelyn Stark_ , the name made his lips curl in distaste. _What kind of mother abandons her sons for revenge?_ He wondered bitterly. 

The sudden crack of a twig pulled his attention away, spinning to find Lyanna staring wide-eyed at his figure standing waist deep in the water. Confused by her reaction he looked over his shoulder before the realization caught up with him. She had seen him shirtless. _Seven fucking hells,_ she’s as shy as a maid. Dropping into the water up to his shoulders Rickon glared at her, “Why’re you following me?”

“It isn’t safe out here on your own.” 

Realizing she wasn’t going to let it go Rickon rolled his eyes, “Turn around.”

“Why?” she asked, dazed eyes still glued to him. 

Disregarding formalities Rickon stood up, letting the water pool around his hips, “ _Turn around_ ,” he insisted gruffly, watching as her eyes drifted downward and her voice sputtered. Spinning on her heels in such a rush Rickon rolled his eyes again as he picked his way back out of the pond toward his pile of clothes. 

Taking his time to dry off and pull his breeches back up Rickon turned his attention back to the brunette, “Is that why you came? Or did you just want a look after the other night.”

“Gods, I shouldn’t have bothered.” She replied, rolling her eyes in annoyance.

“I can take care of myself,” he retorted, shrugging off her comment. Who else would if he didn’t? His family had abandoned him, and the only woman who cared enough to try had died. 

“Didn’t look like it earlier.” Lyanna replied, her words spilling out before she could think to stop them. 

He knew a better man would let it go, there was no hiding the ink and scars that lined his skin. But he was not a better man, and the sooner they knew that the sooner he could return to Skagos. “Why do you care?” He snarled, the anger from the fight earlier bubbling back up to the surface. “I’m just my brother’s ghost to you. Good for killing and taking back your land.” Stepping forward threateningly Rickon glowered, “Want the truth?” Another step and she was leaning against a tree as he leaned over her, blue eyes searching hers. “I like being a savage, little bear. At least then I’m a free man.”

“Savage or not, you’re a Stark of Winterfell,” Lyanna bit back, he had to give her some credit for that. She wasn’t afraid to back down, even now. He hadn’t realized how close he had gotten until his eyes drifted to the bridge of her nose still speckled with blood from the fight earlier. 

“You think I want to be? I’ve spent my entire life trying to forget.” He replied, turning away, his shirt forgotten in his hands. Sighing he ducked his head, “Stark, Mormont, Boltons, they’re only names… ” Rickon retorted, his voice dropping low as he leaned in to whisper, “I’m not one of them.” With that he stepped back, giving them both some space as he busied himself with lacing his boots up. 

“Then why’d you return?” she retorted. “Why not stay on that island?”

“Why do you care what I do?” He deflected, annoyed by her incessant chatter. 

“Why’d you kiss me?” Lyanna replied in kind, stealing his breath as she refused to back down. Rickon stared at her dumbly for a moment, wondering how it had even come up, before turning his back to her impatient to leave. 

When she finally spoke again, her voice had softened slightly as she changed the subject again, “What do they mean?” Her curiosity caught him off guard. 

Turning to make sure he had heard her clearly Rickon paused, confused until he noticed her gaze locked onto his back. His tattoos, “a lot of things…,” he muttered tugging his shirt back over his head to cover the evidence.

“For someone who wants to forget, you have a curious way of showing it.” Lyanna mused. “The wolf… on your back. Is it your direwolf?” she wondered, prodding again. He had never seen it himself but the memory of the healers needle across the span of his back didn’t leave much room for imagination. The old woman had spent hours poking the ink into his skin in the shape of a leaping black wolf, it’s snarling muzzle dripping with blood the way he remembered Shaggydog when Osha had tried to pry him onto the boat. The tattoo alone had set him apart from his Skagosi brothers, who preferred the eagles, krakens, and unicorns that roamed the islands rocky shores. Lyanna had more balls than any of them, asking as many questions as she did. Offering her a curt nod Rickon ducked his head. “Osha used to say I had the wolf’s blood. I thought she meant my family… but it’s more than that.” Shaking his head Rickon caught her eye, “it’s hard to explain.” 

“You mentioned her earlier… ” It was Lyanna’s turn to approach him, carefully, silently prodding him to tell her more. 

“She’s family,” the word felt foreign on his tongue. She had been more than that to him, his _Mamu_ , though he had never said it aloud. The old tongue for mother was something he had only heard the other boys say. And the desire to use the word had died with her. The memory of that night was still fresh in his mind’s eye, having gone to fight in the caves until he could hardly stand from his wounds. In the end his victories hadn’t eased the pain of her passing. 

“Did she… do them?” Lyanna wondered, closing the gap between them to stand beside him. Trying her best to understand the images on his skin. The world around them seemed to fall silent with anticipation. For the second time in less than a week Rickon found himself wondering what he was doing with her alone in these woods. Clenching his jaw at the thought Rickon shrugged his concern away. He had already kissed her once in his distraction, and had almost died for his affection. He wouldn’t make the same mistake twice. 

Shaking his head at her question Rickon rolled up his sleeve to show her the lines carved into his skin, “A healer did them for me.” He would satisfy her curiosity, that’s all, he told himself as he traced Osha’s name again for Lyanna to see. “Osha only helped keep them clean.” It was odd, watching her process the information as her own finger traced over the lines. The slight roughness of her calloused fingertips raising the hair on his arms. The Skagosi women he had shared his bed with had never paid such attention to his tattoos, most of them having a handful of marks themselves. Yet watching her movements felt more intimate. 

“We should get back before the old man sends your men after us,” he muttered suddenly, startling them both as he dragged Lyanna’s attention from his arm. 

Nodding in agreement she turned to lead the way back to camp. Letting out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding Rickon let his sleeve roll back down covering the lines and the memories they brought up, trying his best to shake the feeling that this was only the beginning. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed it ^.^  
> Please leave a kudos & comment your favorite part if you did  
> & feel free to subscribe for updates on our fave feral boy!  
> Thank you for reading!!


	3. Here I Stand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The group is faced with an unexpected challenge once they finally reach White Harbor, Lyanna Mormont proves her worth in court, and Rickon is left grappling with a difficult decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was really hard for me to figure out the *tone* of Lyanna's inner dialogue with how strong her characterization is. I did my best to do our fierce little bear justice :)

By the time they had reached The Neck the late summer snow had turned into sleet and rain. What had started off as a small shower between grey clouds, quickly turned into a downpour as the group trudged south through the muddy terrain. Leather hooded cloaks shielded them from the worst of it, yet the loud patter of raindrops hitting the foliage around them was almost as numbing as the chill that settled into her bones. Most of her men had the decency to keep to themselves, though Lyanna couldn’t begrudge the ones that voiced their opinions within hearing distance. Her own doubts had settled in with each passing day. But the swift change in weather brought to light one surprising comfort; the warmth of Rickon's broad chest pressed against her. Even if it served as a constant reminder that she had seen him shirtless, and liked the sight no less, the action kept her dry which was better than nothing. 

Lyanna did her best to shove those thoughts aside, instead focusing her time on teaching Rickon everything she could think of. She had begun by urging him to learn to ride their stallion on his own, but Rickon was too heavy handed to steer the beast over the muddy terrain without risking an injury. And he seemed more interested in flustering her by whispering brazen questions into her ear. The gall, she thought sourly.  _ I am a Mormont, _ Lyanna and reminded herself sternly whenever her thoughts strayed back to the memory,  _ he won’t win my heart so easily _ . A piece of her wished she had never left Bear Island. Her life had been decidedly easier before dueling Rickon Stark.

Instead she steered both their conversation and horse toward White Harbor, teaching Rickon everything she knew about the northern houses in an effort to prepare him. 

“So this Lord Manderly, from White Harbor, he’s like you… a sworn sword?” Rickon wondered, reviewing the small pieces of information she had told him since the night at the pond. 

“Yes,” Lyanna replied, “House Manderly is loyal to your family… he fought for your brother.” The conversation had been somewhat useful, allowing her to strategize. Pausing for a moment she glanced up at him over her shoulder, “with their numbers they would make a good ally in any war.” Assuming he hadn’t deserted his vows if the rumors about Manderly carrying out the Queens justice were to be believed. It was an afterthought but she wouldn’t trouble Rickon with her doubts until her men confirmed Lord Manderly’s alliance with the Lannisters. 

“And he has men that answer to him, like you do?” Rickon asked, eyeing Edwine who never strayed far from her side. Lyanna knew better than to address whatever petty issue stood between the two men, Edwine was a good man and had been a childhood friend long before that. 

“Yes,” She replied, thankful that he was beginning to understand. “Houses Locke, Woolfield, and Flint of Widow's Watch.”

Assuming Rickon had enough of the conversation Lyanna gave into the silence that followed. “How many houses answered to my brother?” He interrupted, surprising her. Rickon hadn’t exactly been receptive of his family’s influence. 

“More than I care to list,” Lyanna mused, giving the stallion a swift kick to end the conversation as they finally reached the Kingsroad 

* * *

When the bleached sandstone walls of White Harbor rose high above them in the distance Lyanna felt her mood lift. They had made it. Edwine spurred his horse forward, leaving Ser Davos behind with the rest of her men in favor of flanking her and Rickon. But the elation was short lived as uncertainty pricked her skin in tandem with Rickons stiffened posture. 

“Keep your head down until we’re inside,” Lyanna warned him beneath her breath as two guards stepped forward beneath the northern tower to address them at the gate. 

Dressed in turquoise woolen cloaks their steel armor shone a dull grey under the dark sky. Tridents and crossbows raised in defense, the men standing on the battlements of the tower seemed to mirror their coat of arms. “Who goes there?” 

Edwine straightened his shoulders and addressed the two guards with equal measure, “Lady Lyanna Mormont of Bear Island and her guards.”

“What's your purpose?” the other guard questioned, eyeing them. 

“We come seeking Lord Manderly’s audience in the Merman's Court.” Edwine answered. 

Disgruntled, the men shifted on their feet, crossbows dipping down below the walls of the battlements as the foot soldiers set their tridents upright again, “we were not aware our Lord was expecting anyone.”

“Are you lord Manderly?” Lyanna frowned, holding up a hand to keep Edwine from replying as she pushed back against Rickon's chest to sit up straight. “I will see him,  _ now. _ ” 

But before either man could answer, Rickon had slid from the saddle yet again. He was getting annoyingly good at disrupting her thoughts with that move. It left her cold and unsettled as thunder rumbled threateningly overhead. “Open the gates,” he commanded from where he stood beside her. 

“Or what?” One guard chuckled, eyeing Rickon with amusement as another raised his crossbow again, “mind your tongue boy.” 

Jerking his chin to the sky, the black hood of his cloak fell away uncovering the mop of unruly auburn curls as lightning flashed within the grey clouds above them threateningly. “I am Rickon Stark. Call me a boy again, and I’ll have your head.” 

Shivering Lynna fought the urge to roll her eyes,  _ There went any chance of them maintaining secrecy _ . “Open the gates for your liege lord and  _ rightful king _ , or the North will be sure to know where House Manderly stands.” she commanded as she spurred the stallion forward.

After a dubious glance at one another and momentary hesitation the order was given to raise the portcullis with a loud rattle. Offering Rickon a hand to swing back up into the saddle behind her Lyanna shook her head, “You’re going to get us killed.” It was enough to wipe the grin from his lips.

Passing beneath the walls into the harbor the smell of fresh fish and salty seaspray overpowered her senses, reminding her all too much of the markets back home. Though home had never been so lively. Eyeing the dark clouds rolling overhead Lyanna felt an odd sense of foreboding as the guards accompanied them up the winding cobblestone streets toward the Castle. It was a beautiful place, really, with marble mermaids cradling bowls of fire to light their way, and the sails of great war galleys billowing in the coastal breeze off in the distance above the slate roofs. But there was something overwhelming about the atmosphere as they parted the sea of sailors, tourists, and refugees. Lyanna had never seen so many people in one place. 

“Halt,” one guard ordered, reining in his mare at the gates of the castle, gesturing for her to dismount, “Your horses and weapons.” Casting the men a suspicious look Lyanna swallowed her pride before taking Rickon’s hand to dismount, ignoring the way his calloused hand felt in hers. Frowning as she unbuckled her belt and offered her sword to the closest guard, Lyanna turned to catch Rickon tightening his grip on the pommels of his dual swords. 

“I’ll keep these,” he replied.

“My Lord…” The man insisted, trying to reason with him, but Rickon stubbornly refused. 

“Forgive him, my Lord,” a man interrupted catching their attention. Standing a head taller with a greying beard than everyone else he carried an ornate helm in one hand. He must be the commander of the guard, Lyanna considered. The commander on bear Island, Ser Daven, was a short but kindly man that had enough appetite for two men. In comparison, this man seemed almost houghty. Offering Rickon a curt nod, the man gestured for the guards behind him to open the towering oaken doors behind them. “Right this way,” the guard said with a sweeping gesture toward the wooden door. There was no turning back now, Lyanna mused as she fell into step beside Rickon feeling Edwine’s gaze hot on her back. 

“Enter, Rickon Stark of Winterfell, and Lady Lyanna Mormont of Bear Island. You are in the presence of Lord Wyman Manderly, Warden of the White Knife, Lord of White Harbor and Marshal of the Mander, Shield of the Faith, Defender of the Dispossessed, and Knight of the Order of the Green Hand.” The commander announced as their group filed in. At the other end, Lord Manderly sat beneath a battling kraken, holding court with half a dozen men. 

“Good evening Lord Manderly, it’s an honor” Lyanna bowed mindful of her manners as they pushed through a throng of refugees to make their way toward through the cushioned throne. 

“The honor is all mine, Lady Lyanna,” Wyman smiled before turning to eye Rickon curiously, “Clear the court.” 

“My Lord-,” the Maesters words died on his lips with a cold stare as the others left in a rustle of fine fabrics and skeptical glances. Only two women remained, standing behind Lord Manderly on the dias above them. For a moment Lyanna almost confused them with statues among the beautiful sea creatures carved into the room around them, but when the brunette moved to clasp her hands behind her back the illusion disappeared. 

“Bless the Gods, you look so much like your brother…” Wyman whispered, catching Lyanna’s attention again and causing Rickon to bristle slightly. 

“I-” 

“Let him speak,” Wyman interrupted before Lyanna can form a response, “The truth of it now. Are you Rickon Stark?”

“Yes,” he replied, chin jutting out defiantly, “I was born at Winterfell to Catelyn and Eddard Stark.” The words were cold and sharp. 

“How can we be sure he isn’t some clever pretender?” The brunette wondered, voicing her doubt as her eyes swept over him skeptically. “Where is his direwolf?”

“If it’s shaggy you want I’m sorry to disappoint,” Rickon hissed between clenched teeth, “I was forced to leave him behind when we set sail for Skagos. But I assure you I am no  _ pretender. _ ” 

“Why Skagos?” Wyman asked, leaning forward as he clutched his forgotten cutlery in one hand. 

“I was a child and the woman that accompanied me would’ve been beheaded south of the wall. I was safe there until your sailor found me some nights ago.” The words barely passed through his clenched teeth as his grip tightened on his belt. Not for the first time Lyanna found herself wondering what he was thinking about that caused so much hate. The ambush along the river had been telling enough, remembering the way he had cleaved one soldier with the single swing of his blade. Rickon carried himself fearlessly, with an edge of wildness seen in his seal skin boots, borrowed clothes, and the ink that lined his skin beneath them. Worse still, she found herself  _ admiring _ him for it. 

“I told you,” the green-haired woman standing behind the lord interjected, “Wex told the truth.”

“The onion knight, is he here?” the other woman questioned. 

“I am my lady,” Davos responded, having waited quietly before revealing his identity.

Wyman seemed pleased enough to see him, offering him a stiff nod of approval between, “You were true to your word. Tell Stannis House Manderly will support his claim to the throne.” 

“Your rightful King stands before you and you swear fealty to some southron Lord?” Lyanna snapped without second thought, stepping forward as the anger filled her, “Pray tell Lord Manderly, what do you mean to do with us?”

“Does he come with men and money?” Manderly retorted, his gaze sweeping over her with boredom.

Rickon’s jaw twitched at the implication, “No.”

“Then my house will swear fealty to Stannis Baratheon, rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms.” Wyman replied coolly, “though you are welcome to stay here until the North is prepared for your return my lord.” 

“King,” Lyanna corrected. 

“Come again?”

“He’s your  _ King _ ,” Lyanna reiterated, “or have you forgotten the vow to his brother? The North is ready for his return. Though I imagine you might not be, considering the flexibility of your loyalty.”

“I beg your pardon my lady?” Wyman’s words cut like ice as his gaze hardened on her. 

_ Old Gods save her _ , Lyanna felt her resolve disappear. She had, had enough listening to men speak just to hear their own voices.  _ I am the Lady of Bear Island _ , Lyanna reminded herself. A Lady could fight just as well without swords, for her words were just as sharp. “I’ll remind you Lord Manderly, House Mormont has kept faith with House Stark for a thousand years.” 

“Aye, so have we.” The green-haired woman shot back, “Our house swore vows in front of the old gods and the new long before House Mormont. Vow’s we have not forgotten. We are Stark men as much as any of you.” 

Lyanna took her words as support despite the animosity, feeling her temper cool as she returned Wyman’s gaze, “Then House Manderly should be the first to remember that the North knows no king, but the King in the North whose name is Stark.” 

“Is that so?” Wyman wondered, “Pray tell my Lady, how do you plan to take it back from those Bolton bastards without men or money?” 

“Bear Island has pledged every man and woman to the cause,” Lyanna replied when Rickon’s hand on her arm caused her to pause. 

“You are a sworn sword are you not?” Rickon wondered, addressing Wyman, “your men are mine to command.” His tone even as it echoed in the hall around them, for a moment Lyanna swore everything froze, awaiting Lord Manderly’s response. 

“My Lords,” Ser Davos interjected, stepping forward to address them unanimously, Stannis may be... persuaded, to support your return.” There was a catch, she could see it in the way his gaze lingered on the Rickon’s back, “but the North would have to return to the fold.” 

“Go on,” Wyman encouraged, returning to his food with interest as the onion knight addressed them in equal measure.

Ser Davos shrugged as he mulled over his words, “The king is keen on finding an agreeable husband for his only daughter, Shireen. History has shown the strength of a Baratheon-Stark alliance. Perhaps a betrothal between the two would be in his best interests, and allow the North to remain in the fold.” She felt an odd chill run along her spine at the implication. Brown eyes boring into Rickon, Lyanna fought to control her features. He wouldn’t agree to it, would he? She wondered. Rickon hardly seemed like the type to be interested in marriage. 

“You’ve thought this through, haven’t you?,” Manderly remarked with a rueful smile, running his palm thoughtfully over his face before looking at Rickon, “what would you have me do?” 

Lyanna felt her fist clench with tension, hoping Rickon knew the weight of this decision. Robb Stark had fought for northern independence, independence that thousands had died for.  _ Darcey did not die for nothing _ , she swore to herself as she clenched her fist.  _ Don’t let her die for nothing _ , the words almost slipped from between her lips like a silent prayer if it hadn’t been for the twitch of her jaw. If Manderly was willing to support Rickon’s claim there was still hope, she had to reassure herself as the hall waited with baited breath for Rickons response. 

“Call your banners, we ride for Winterfell in three days,” Rickon ordered. He hadn’t agreed,  _ yet _ , a tiny voice whispered. But she felt her heart ache all the same. Had the kiss meant nothing? Of course it hadn’t, how could she have been so naive? He had likely kissed a dozen girls before her. 

“As you command,” Wyman agreed, ending the conversation with a wry smile. “Tell Stannis we will see him in the halls of Winterfell within a fortnight.” Gazing over his shoulders at the two women the man waved one hand dismissively, “Wylla, find them quarters.” 

  
With a practiced spin Wylla stepped from the throne, holding one sweeping arm out toward a tall oaken door behind her, “If you’ll follow me.” Waiting for Rickon to take the first step Lyanna and her men followed tentatively, falling into step beside him and the strange woman. 

“Who are you to the Lord?” Rickon asked the woman as Lyanna admired the band of coral beads that tied her plaited green hair back. 

“Forgive him, the boy’s still learning his manners,” Edwine interjected before Wylla could respond. 

That seemed to add to her amusement, shaking her head knowingly while Rickon shot Edwine a cold glare, “my sister and I are his granddaughters.” Guiding the group down a long hallway with beautiful stained glass windows Wylla offered them each a half dozen different rooms at the end of the corridor. 

Choosing her own room across from Rickon’s Lyanna felt herself pause when Rickon continued once most of the guards had paired off and disappeared behind closed doors, “where are your parents?” 

After a long silence Wylla’s voice had dropped to a near whisper, “They’re safe, here within these walls. My father was in poor shape when they returned him to us, and my mother cries for him still knowing now what they did to him in that wretched place.”

“Perhaps death would’ve been kinder,” Rickon mused softly before ducking his head, “I’m sorry, for what happened.”

“As am I,” Wylla agreed, not unkindly. “Your brother was a good king, blinded by love and loyalty.” 

Lyanna could almost hear his teeth grind as his jaw twitched, “I am not my brother.”

“I pray to the seven you’re right about that,” Wylla replied before turning to leave, “sleep well my lord,” she offered with a thin lipped smile before turning to where Lyanna still stood frozen in the shadow of her doorway, “and you _my lady_.” 

Raising her gaze from the floor Lyanna found Rickon’s blue eyes locked on her as Wylla’s sage dress swept along the stone floor back down the hallway. Without another word Lyanna closed the door behind her, cursing her stammering heartbeat for betraying her. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed reading!  
> If you did please leave a kudos & comment your favorite moment so far!   
> As always thank you for your continued support ^.^


	4. Bury The Pain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rickon faces the consequences of a betrayal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The original outline of his chapter actually ended up being split up over the course of the next two chapters which is why it took me so long to finish this. But I'm still feeling pretty happy and confident with the end result. If you were looking for Shireen content - I PROMISE it's coming soon, this really is going to be a polyship fic it's just taking longer than originally expected!

By the third day Rickon found himself at a loss for things to do. He had spent the better part of his time sharpening his swords, until the lightest tough pricked his finger. Pacing, he packed the handful of belongings Lord Manderly had gifted him in his saddlebag. The Manderly’s had been kind enough after the first night, despite the fact they had kept Rickon, Lyanna, and their men all but locked in their respective rooms for fear of spies. 

Lacing the new pair of boots Wyman had given him to match his riding leathers, Rickon fastened his belt around his waist and sheathed his swords in their scabbards. 

Peering shirtlessly into the tall looking glass hanging from the wall across the room Rickon rolled his weight onto the balls of his feet. Bouncing up and down to test the craftsmanship of the leather soles before his eyes drifted up to his hair. He had seen his auburn curls briefly before Wylla had set to dye them black with a muddy paste.  _ It suits you _ , she had smiled when she finished, eyeing her work appreciatively before excusing herself.  _ Then again black had always suited him _ , Rickon mused with a smirk, brushing back a curl that fell across his face. There was something about the color that warmed his savage heart and reminded him of shaggy. 

The image brought back the dream, sending a chill down his spine as the faint memory of blood filled his nose. It had been years since he had tried to find the direwolf in his minds-eye, convinced he had left his shadow behind on the unrelenting shoreline. But things were different now. Rickon couldn’t shake the feeling that the dream meant something. Reaching to touch his reflection softly he paused, ignoring the doubt that threatened to cloud his mind, in search for a sign.  _ Show me _ . 

The ground moved in a flicker sending tufts of snow swirling lazily behind him as they ran. Tongue lolling out in joy at the feeling of their muscles stretching for the first time in days Rickon followed his nose between tall sentinels and weathered pines.  _ Where were they? _ He had caught the scent of blood in the night and been rewarded with the sight of a naked man standing lifelessly in the moonlight. Fear clung to the torn flesh and tainted the cold ground beneath as the chattering howls of his lesser cousins swarmed around the corpse. He scared them off easily enough and enjoyed his fill, when something caught his attention. Memories of an island surrounded by thunderous waves threatened to break the spell as they choked on the taste. 

“Careful, stare too long and you might fall in,” Lyanna remarked loudly, startling Rickon causing him to stumble as her words dragged him back to the present. 

Wincing as his knees hit the stone floor of his bedchamber Rickon recovered quickly, “A man that falls in love with himself, is not a man. ” Disgruntled by her appearance he pushed himself off the floor. Grabbing his tunic from the bedspread and pulling it over his head haphazardly to cover himself when Lyanna stepped through the door frame. 

With a smile she offered him a large brown parcel in her outstretched hands, “try these on.” 

Eyeing her for a moment, Rickon hesitated before accepting her gift. Cautiously he undid the twine and felt his lips part in surprise at the sight. 

“You’ll be Rickon from Bear Island until we defeat the Boltons,” Lyanna added when he didn’t respond. 

Manners quickly forgotten, he dropped the packaging to one side and pulled the fine spun tunic out first. Appreciating the texture of the fabric, Rickon quickly set it aside before holding up the smooth leather jerkin beneath. The sigil of House Mormont had been embroidered on the breast with silver floss an unexpected reminder of all that he had lost. He had owned things like these before, although it had been thick linen instead of leather, with the head of a snarling direwolf where a bear now stood. They had been the last Stark clothes he had owned before Osha ripped the sigil from his breast and left it lying in the dirt.  _ We cannot let them know who you are, Rickon, do you hear me? No one can know _ , she had told him fervently as the fabric tore between her clenched fists. 

Rickon shoved the pain to the back of his mind again as he turned to admire the final piece, a black sable cloak that weighed comfortably between his hands. He had never owned anything so nice. Stunned by the thought, he wasn’t sure how to react. “You know on Skagos this would be a proposal,” Rickon finally mustered, teasing her in an effort to relieve the tension he felt in his chest. 

“Then I will put them to better use before your betrothed finds out,” Lyanna deadpanned. 

_ Was she jealous? _ He remembered her reaction when the old man had suggested a political marriage. But Lyanna hardly seemed the type. She had been the one to break their kiss afterall. In truth Rickon hadn’t entertained the thought of his betrothal since their arrival. He had decided he would wait until he met this mystery woman. If she was anything like Lyanna and Lord Manderly’s daughters, Rickon had no doubt he would accept the proposal. But until then, he would wait. “I’m sure she won’t mind,” he finally smiled. 

“Perhaps not,” Lyanna replied, crossing her arms as she retreated toward the hallway. “But I would.”

Trying his hardest to stifle a grin, Rickon grabbed her arm to stop her from leaving altogether. Spinning her around to face him he tilted his head to one side, surveying her, “is that what this is about?” 

Her hesitation was telling enough, “No.” 

Rickon laughed, “Maybe I’ll marry you instead little bear.” Pulling her closer he quirked a lone eyebrow as he teased her, “you’d like that, wouldn’t you? Being my  _ queen _ .” 

Her palm met his cheek with a resounding slap as her face reddened. “You’re intolerable,” Lyanna all but growled, shoving herself free from his grip.

“Thank you, truly,” Rickon finally relented, trying failingly to resolve the tension. But Lyanna left nonetheless. The painted glass window panes from the hallway bathing her in technicolored light as she went. “Where are you going?” Hands cupped over his mouth he shouted after her, “Lyanna!” 

“To send a raven _ , _ ” she replied coldly as she spun to face him effortlessly before continuing down the hall.

Returning to the forgotten parcel Rickon picked it up, acutely aware of how comfortable he had become around the Northwoman. But there were more pressing matters, the wolf sight he had had earlier for one, and the ride north. Choosing to dismiss the dead man, Rickon felt his stomach churn as his thoughts raced. Shaggydog was already leagues ahead of them, with a growing hunger in the otherwise frozen Wolfswood. A chill ran through him at the thought, pricking the healing wound in his shoulder uncomfortably. 

Greeting Lord Manderly in the courtyard of New Castle, Rickon declined the invitation to ride in his ornate carriage in favor of the golden stallion he had become acquainted with on the ride south. Fastening his saddlebag, Rickon ran a hand along its flank thoughtfully, all too aware of the fact that he would no longer have the luxury of riding with Lyanna. Yet the initial fear he had felt on his first night seemed to have disappeared, replaced with a strange sense of trust as he gathered the reins and mounted. 

“I knew Lyanna was up to something,” Edwine’s boyish laugh rose up behind him, eyeing Rickon's new clothes as he led his mare to a standstill. “She aims to make you a proper Lord,” 

“Little chance of that,” Rickon replied, earning him another laugh. 

“Aye, suppose that’s true,” the soldier said as he mounted his horse, “there’s nothing proper about a savage.” With that he spurred the mare forward, leaving Rickon to watch as he rode off to find Lyanna in the crowd. 

Anger swelled in his gut, twisting uncomfortably as the stallion swayed beneath him.  _ What had he done to deserve such hate?  _ He wondered briefly. Rickon knew no amount of hair dye and fine clothes would wash the blood from his hands, but he was trying,  _ did that count for nothing? _

The realization left him frowning as he dug his heels into the horses flank, taking off along the edge of the crowd and down the cobblestone streets toward the gate with a gallop. Closing his eyes as they dodged strangers and leapt over traveling carts Rickon gave into the urge to run like Shaggy had. Relishing the freedom he found in the wind until he found himself far beyond the city gates heading towards the head of the traveling column. 

* * *

The journey north passed far faster than Rickon had anticipated. Wolf dreams plagued his mind more frequently and vividly with each passing night, until every tree that lined the Kingsroad felt like he had seen it before. The Old Gods wanted him to see something, Rickon was sure of it, yet the visions only brought him doubt. 

Lyanna had hardly looked at him since the incident at White Harbor, preferring to ride alongside Edwine and the rest of her men in the column. Thus, his only comfort became the golden stallion he had affectionately named Apple, after his favorite treat. The two of them got along well enough, and Rickon found himself retelling childhood stories as they rode. 

He had been in the middle of describing his first fight when the scent of rotting flesh drifted downwind disrupting his thoughts. Apple moved on his own accord, picking up speed until Rickon found himself cantering toward a crowd of soldiers. 

“Move,” He ordered, swinging from the saddle and parting the sea of onlookers until he stood at the edge. 

Processing the sight of the flayed man above him Rickon swallowed the rising bile, repulsed by the idea that someone would be so cruel, until his eyes fell to the seal skin boots nailed to the cross.  _ Hallis _ . 

“Make way!” Edwine snapped as he led Lyanna through the crowd until they stood beside him. “Gods be good-,” The soldier breathed while Lyanna covered her nose in disgust. 

Rounding on them Rickon felt his rage crash over him blindingly. Without forethought he grabbed Edwine by the throat dragging him to the center of the circle and tossed him into the pool of congealed blood, “You told me they were taken captive,” he snarled accusingly. 

“They were,” Edwine replied pitifully as he eyed the figure above him, “the Boltons flay their captives.”

“Rickon-,” Lyanna warned as she directed the rest of her men to break up the crowd. 

“The Boltons did  _ this _ ?” Rickon snapped, all care or concern for caution leaving him at the realization that he had left his men behind on a strangers word. “You swore there was nothing we could do.” Sucking in a deep breath he tried to steady the rising sense of dread, “I could have saved them!”

“They were wildlings,” Edwine spat, earning him a swift punch from Rickon that left him sprawling in the snow while he nursed his eye. 

“They were _my_ _men_.” Rickon emphasized as he stood above Edwine, before facing Lyanna with a glare, daring her to correct him. When she didn’t he turned his attention to the closest man, “find me an axe and shovel.” 

“What do you think you’re doing?” Lyanna finally asked, breaking the silence within the group when the man returned.

“Burying him.” 

It didn’t take him long to cut the cross down in his rage. Lord Manderly passed by silently, observing him for a short while before ordering his men to leave Rickon to his business. Only Lyanna stayed behind, rooted to the spot beside her mare as he busied himself with removing the nails from the Skagossons wrists and ankles. He should’ve known better than to trust Edwine that night. Staring at the corpse of his friend, Rickon held a sudden hate toward Davos and his order to keep them on the ship.  _ I should’ve been there _ , the thought curled like sour milk in the pit of his stomach.  _ I could’ve saved them _ . Only the steady ache of his muscles when he finally lowered the corpse into the shallow grave served to calm him.

Using the last of his strength to pouring a sip of skagosi ale from his flask over the corpse Rickon took a long sip for himself.  _ I will avenge you Hallis _ , Rickon vowed as he swallowed thickly,  _ I swear it on the Nameless Gods above I’ll kill the bastards for this _ . After a moment of silence he knelt, striking a piece of flint and watched the flames slowly rise up. 

He waited until the fire finally began to die down again before mounting his stallion, too consumed by his own thoughts to care if Lyanna had followed suit when he set off at a gallop. 

It was nearly dusk when he spotted two more corpses along the frozen Kingsroad. Rickon felt his heart sink as the last of his hope died out. He had known the two warriors half his life. Sawane had been his brother since the first time they had learned to wield swords together. The two of them had been inseparable, daring to swim across the icy fjord between houses Magnar and Skane. Rickon could almost hear Sawane's laughter still echoing in the caves late at night over the topic of beautiful women. Now only his axes remained still slung around bloodied hips where scavengers had torn the toned muscle clean from ivory bone. 

Across from her brother, Alys swayed lazily in the wind. The nausea from earlier bubbled back toward the surface suddenly, forcing him to his knees as he wretched on an empty stomach. There was no reconciling the skeleton in front of him with the woman he remembered. She had been flayed from the neck down, leaving her once beautiful blonde hair matted with dried blood and sun cracked lips parted with crawling maggots. If Sawane had been his right hand, Alys had been his left. She had always been a fighter, leaving her fair share of scars on his skin in the pits despite being a few years younger and half a head shorter than him. Rickon had left a few marks of his own beneath the stars, though those had always been sweeter than steel. He could not imagine a life without her. And yet here she stood, dead and bare for the whole world to see.

Rickon’s throat closed at the sudden wave of nostalgia and painful realization that the siblings had never stood a chance beyond the cavernous walls of House Magnar. Turning away in a poor attempt to focus on something, anything, else Rickon caught sight of one final cross. 

Maric’s skull hung low, his unseeing gaze making Rickon feel irrationally small despite the distance between them. He still remembered the day Maric had taken him on his first hunt atop the steep Skagosi cliffs. Rickon had been blind with fear, stumbling behind the other boys with their fathers when he had slipped without warning. Only Maric’s firm grip had kept him from falling toward certain death, dragging him back in line with a silent glare. If Osha had difficulty raising Rickon, Maric surely dealt with twice as much. And yet the two had found peace with their fate between her furs much to Rickon's chagrin. 

His kin had refused to remain behind when Rickon had told them about the plans to retake Winterfell. How different things might’ve been if only they had stayed. If Rickon had gone alone into the unknown. Tears spilled over at the thought, hot and angry against his cheeks. 

He felt lost here, standing among flies, in a wasteland he barely remembered. The only family he had ever known flayed like prey above him as if this were a game. They had paid their trust in him with blood. It didn’t matter what anyone said about his birth right, he didn’t belong here. He didn’t deserve his brothers' keep or crown, not with their blood on his hands. 

Blue eyes shining as the last rays of light disappeared beyond the horizon Rickon fought to suppress the memories. Angrily he wiped his sleeve across his face, forcefully collecting himself when Lyanna finally caught up to him. 

Lost in his own thoughts, he hardly noticed when she moved past him with his shovel. Pressing the tip into the hardened dirt he caught himself staring as she set to work wordlessly.  _ Did she pity him? _ Perhaps she had when he had first recognized Hallis, but this felt different than pity. He couldn’t place the change, and he didn’t care to find out the reason either. Setting to work himself Rickon pulled the axe from his saddle bag and began to cut down the crosses. 

* * *

Only the distant sounds of Wintertown held a flicker of his attention when he finished pouring the last of his ale over Maric’s grave. Rickon’s grief had long since given way to exhaustion until only hate remained. He could hardly bring himself to mount again yet he did it all the same, desensitized to the stench of rotting flesh and circling scavengers. Regardless of what his companions thought, his return was not that of a King.  _ No _ , Rickon decided as they caught up with their traveling companions,  _ Edwine had the right of it _ . There was no use trying to wash the blood from his name. 

The Old Gods had shown him what he had almost forgotten, but he would not let himself forget again. He was Rickon Stark, wildling savage of Skagos, and it was high time Westeros felt the wrath of his return. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!! :)  
> As always if you enjoyed reading please feel free to leave a kudos & comment your favorite part!


	5. Memento Mori

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the past resurfaces loyalties are tested, amendments made, and plans of revenge set in motion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to tigereyes45 for continuing to help me with this work! Currently finishing the polishing touches on Chapter 6 (spoiler title: It Takes a Monster)! Looking forward to posting it soon :)

Silence drifted through the ghost town outside of Winterfell’s eastern gates.  _ How long had it been since he had last been this close to this place?  _ Rickon wondered blankly, still preoccupied from the night before. Falling into line between Mormont and Manderly soldiers, he took in the small inns and stone houses around them. Charred wooden doors swung lazily on their hinges while their roofs slouched with the forgotten weight of snow drifts. It felt strange riding along the empty streets. Like a wolf dream that would disappear with the blink of an eye. If anyone still lived here, they hid like gutter rats. Only the sickly sweet smell of dead still smoldering atop a massive pyre below the towns inn served to remind Rickon of who his enemy was.

Wolf dream or not, there was no denying its reality when Lord Manderly’s carriage led the way through the gate and into Winterfell’s courtyard. Steam rose from the black waters of the moat as they crossed under the ever watchful eyes of Bolton soldiers. And whatever wondrous nostalgia had momentarily crossed his mind quickly vanished at the sight of the flayed flag hanging from the crenellated turrets of the inner walls. A cold reminder that he wasn’t the only monster within the castle. 

Following the other soldiers Rickon dismounted in time to witness a man stepping forward. “Welcome,” He greeted, his pale thin lips curving into the imitation of a smile as Lord Manderly stepped from the carriage.

“Lord Bolton,” Wyman replied, kneeling on the hard earth before rising again.  _ So this was the man behind the flayings _ , Rickon noted taking in his strange pale eyes when they landed on him briefly. 

“I trust the journey wasn’t too difficult,” Roose offered, returning his attention to Wyman. His voice, small and soft, in the otherwise crowded courtyard. 

“Not at all,” Lyanna answered as she dismounted before the assembly. Her gloves and cloak, still stained with mud from digging. But when she pulled her shoulders back and met the Lord’s inquisitive gaze Rickon swore she carried the authority of both Lords combined. 

If her sudden appearance or disheveled look caught Roose off guard, the man did an excellent job recovering. “Lady Mormont, I had thought your House was pledged to Stannis Baratheon’s futile cause.” 

“You are ill-informed my Lord,” She replied curtly, chin tilted upwards defiantly, “my sister does not speak for Bear Island.” Moving to pull her gloves off Lyanna tossed the men a warm smile, “I do.” 

_ Sister, _ the mention of her family surprised him. She had never mentioned family before, but then again he had never thought to ask. Rickon had just assumed she was alone,  _ like him _ . Pinching his brow, Rickon shook the thought from his mind as he focused on their conversation again. Now was not the time to contemplate her personal history. That could wait until later when he had time to confront her alone. 

“Then you will not mind pledging your loyalty to the iron throne.” Roose replied, openly contesting her statement and sending a hushed whisper through the crowd. Clenching his fist, Rickon bit his tongue to keep himself from confronting the Boltons there and now.  _ Be smart boy _ , Maric had told him when they had trained _ , save your energy _ . He had dreamt a thousand ways of killing these men, and each way needed a plan. Lyanna always had a plan, he would wait to hear her out. And if she didn’t he would do what he did best, kill as many of these bastards as he could. 

“House Mormont recognizes the North as one of the Seven Kingdoms and your House as Warden of the North,” Lyanna agreed, breaking the silence and dispelling thoughts of murder as she knelt in the mud like Lord Manderly had. 

“Rise, my Lady,” Lord Bolton answered, “and welcome to Winterfell.” Turning to address both Lord and Lady, Roose gestured toward the large woman standing beside him, “I’d like to introduce you to my wife, Walda-” 

Rickon began trailing off again after that, uninterested in the comings and goings of his enemies when their skulls would soon line the castle walls. He had heard what he needed to. Some of the soldiers had begun to break away towards a tall building beside the keep, while others set out for the only Inn. 

While the thought of a good drink and warm bed appealed to the exhaustion in his bones, Rickon wasn’t interested in either. He had only been a babe the last time he had stood within these walls. Bran had been with him then, with Summer and Shaggy, and Osha and Hodor. _How naive they had been_. 

Pausing to enjoy the cool breath of fall against his skin, Rickon found himself standing in the shade of a broken tower. Instinctually he reached out, fingers grazing against the rough granite walls as he closed his eyes. He knew this place.  _ Home _ , a voice called out from the depths of his subconscious. Images of Bran practicing archery beside the tower flickered as the sound of his sister's laughter filled his mind.  _ Arya _ . The thought occurred to him clear as day, though he could not recall what she looked like, or how he had remembered her name. Pressing his palm firmly against the wall Rickon fought to see the sister he never knew. But her laughter only continued as she raced away from him.. 

Opening his eyes Rickon was greeted by the sight of clear blue skies above him. The laughter from his memories dying out to silence as reality came crashing in. Yet the faceless girl plagued him.  _ Would she recognize him if they crossed paths in the castle? _ What had the old sailor told him? Something about the lord marrying her? The thought made his jaw clench uncomfortably. He would sooner bury her himself than see his own flesh and blood marry one of them. 

Newly annoyed at the situation, Rickon spun on his heels when something in the mud caught his eye. Crouching, he brushed away ash and dirt to reveal a thin wooden limb of a figurine. The hard earth had been scorched by fire, coating everything in familiar shades of grey, yet the wood had been left untouched. Turning it over in his hand curiously Rickon paused. A snarling direwolf. The telltale ripples of cedar wood shone in the afternoon sun.

The uncanny feeling that he was being watched washed over him suddenly. Standing quickly, Rickon tucked the wolf into the waistband of his trousers. Eyeing his surroundings briefly he suppressed the urge to speed up as he made his way back toward the assembly. Taking care to loop once around the yard again in an effort to see if someone really had been following him. 

The noise outside quieted as the door to the guest hall closed behind him with a dull thud . His fingers curled at the strange sensation of familiarity. Of course it felt familiar, he scoffed at his own childishness. But this was no longer his home. Home was a thousand leagues away, within the dark skagosi caves. A place where he could bathe in blood as easily as he could the sea.  _ No _ , Rickon reiterated to himself as a maid led him to his guest room. He would keep his promise to Lyanna. But when it was done he would return to Skagos like he had planned. 

“Move,” Edwine muttered from behind him, rousing Rickon from his thoughts. A multicolored bruise had begun to bloom around his left eye where Rickon’s fist had hit him. In hindsight Rickon had gone rather easy on the man. Sawane might’ve cut his tongue out for calling them skaggs. 

“What are you doing here?” he wondered, refusing to move into the room for his sake. 

“Lady Mormont ordered me to make amends,” Edwine replied after a moment when he realized Rickon wouldn’t let up. 

“Fuck off,” Rickon said, squarring his shoulders as he faced Edwine fully, “Tell Lyanna she can spare me the false apologies.” If Edwine was going to make amends, Rickon preferred he did it as an honest man on his own accord. Otherwise he wanted no part in whatever they were playing at. 

Hesitating for a moment Rickon watched as Edwine contemplated his options before sighing, “look, she told me I was to room with you-” 

Grabbing Edwine by his leather jerkin Rickon pulled him close, intent on making his final words to the little man crystal clear. “I don’t care what she told you.” Pausing to make sure the words ingrained into his memory before continuing. “I said fuck off, are we clear?” He didn’t wait for the man to reply before promptly shoving him back into the hallway and closing the door with a resounding rattle. 

The annoyance he had felt when he first arrived had crept back, seeping into his muscles. Undoing the knot around his throat he dropped his cloak on the floor and quickly turned to unlace his boots. Rickon knew a better man would’ve apologized for snapping at the man earlier, but his pride refused to budge. Instead Rickon faced the room again as he considered his options. The attack would either occur during the ceremony or after, and neither was fail proof if they didn’t eliminate the guards first. 

Stopping at the edge of his bed Rickon tugged the laces from his leather jerkin in frustration. Briefly enjoying the chill of northern air that brushed against his skin when the leather fell away.  _ How had everything become so complicated?  _ Yanking his shirt over his head haphazardly he paused when the figurine dropped to the floor at his feet. There was something unnatural in the way it’s beady little eyes stared at him. As if daring him to pick it back up.  _ Why hadn’t it burned with the rest? _ Rickon wondered, thinking back to the moment in the yard earlier.  _ Had he been meant to find it? _

He wasn’t sure when he had started believing in fate when he had been perfectly content carving a path of his own growing up. Every success in his life had always been his. No one owed him a thing, least of all the Old Gods that never answered a single prayer. 

Yet he suddenly felt as if every step had led him to this moment. From the moment he had first met Lyanna down to the figurine lying at his feet.  _ You’re imagining things _ , Rickon mused as he picked the direwolf up and thumbed the smooth flank. The longer he held it the stronger the sense of foreboding grew. Osha had always said the Old Gods carried their power in the carved eyes of the heart trees.  _ There were more important things to worry about _ , he reminded himself, tucking the figurine beneath the mattress of his bed. 

Shirtless, he poured water into a basin beneath the looking glass. Washing the stains of bloodied mud from his hands and forearms with a cloth. The healing wound on his shoulder had begun to scab over, itching from time to time, though the color had improved.

With a sigh he turned, feeling more like himself for the first time in days. Padding bear footed toward the open window beside the featherbed he peered out. The third floor room offered a view clear across the castle yard and into the Godswood. From a distance the dense forest seemed untouched by whatever fire had torn through the rest of the castle. A sea of green pines, speckled with golden oaks and amber hawthorn. Yet the tell-tale leaves of the weirwood stuck out against the others, like a fresh blood stain rustling in the wind. The sight brought back a swell of longing for Skagos and its heart trees. Rickon could hardly recall having seen another since he had left. 

_ Pull yourself together _ , He tried to berate himself. He had come here to kill the men that flayed his family,  _ soft feelings served no purpose to that end _ . Surveying the rest of the yard Rickon frowned. The castle was larger than he had originally thought, and well-manned by the looks of the guards making their rounds along the walls. 

Gooseflesh prickled his skin sending a shiver down his spine at the thought that he was being watched. Unable to shake the feeling that something wasn’t quite right. Hallis had always said he had an active imagination, _perhaps that's all it was_. Shoving the gut feeling down, he tried to return his thoughts to the wedding  _ Focus _ . 

Mindful of drunken soldiers celebrating in the evening air below his window, Rickon hurried to dress again. Settled on the idea that he would attack during the wedding he ran a hand through his hair. Forcing the self doubt and lingering thoughts from his mind.  _ It would all be over soon _ , he swore to himself. Once the Boltons were dead he would be a free man again, unbound by the past and childish promises. With that Rickon opened the door. So engrossed in his own thoughts he hardly registered Edwine watching him from across the hall.

“Not done kissing my ass?” He wondered when Edwine began to follow him. But the Mormont soldier stayed silent, eyes trained on the ground as they stepped outside.

Patience waning with each passing second Rickon finally stopped, reaching out with one hand to grab Edwine by the elbow when a crowd of Manderly soldiers passed them. “I don’t give a damn what Lyanna wants or doesn’t want you to do. You could wipe her ass after a shit, for all I care. But the next time you say the word skagg, it will be the last time you speak. Are we clear?” 

Slowly Edwine nodded, his posture stiffening under Rickon's tight grip. 

Easing up slightly Rickon offered his own nod, a silent acknowledgment that he would make good on his threat. Sighing, he released Edwine’s arm, assuming he would leave to find Lyanna now that they had made their  _ amends _ . But the soldier only continued to follow him when Rickon made his way toward the first keep. 

“Where are we going?” Edwine finally dared to whisper once they had left the last of the castle guards behind. “The wedding is in the Godswood.”

“Do you have a sword?” Rickon wondered, already confident in the man's reply as he drew both of his blades. Ignoring the look of confusion, Rickon offered him a wolfish grin and pressed a sword into the Edwine's hand. “try and keep up.” With that he turned, biting down on his sword Rickon unbuckled his cloak and belt, and began to climb. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading  
> In case you were now wondering how "Momento Mori" ties in - it's latin for an item that serves as a reminder of mortality and death. But I suspect our feral son doesn't quite grasp the meaning of his little totem just yet. 
> 
> As always if you enjoyed reading please feel free to leave a kudos & comment your favorite moment!


	6. It Takes a Monster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The night Rickon Stark earned his moniker

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ngl my original outline had this chapter pegged together with chapter 5 but I'm really happy that I ended up splitting the two up! After two weeks of perfecting the two and hitting writers block after writers block, I pulled an all-nighter last night to polish this piece :)  
> Enjoy!!

By the halfway point the rough granite walls of the first keep had begun to open old callouses. With pure determination Rickon forced himself to continue through the stinging cramps in either hand. Choosing to focus on the quiet scuff of his leather boots against stone instead. 

Edwine had been a quick study, following his moves like clockwork despite the occasional slip. The first had been terrifying enough when the stone block shifted under the soldiers weight, nearly causing Edwine to lose his grip. But the Mormont never made a sound. That alone had earned Edwine a second chance when this was all over. 

Reaching the top Rickon was briefly distracted by the blank stare of a gargoyle before he pulled himself up over the edge and turned to offer Edwine a hand. 

“What the hell are we doing here?” Edwine bit out between deep breaths while Rickon surveyed the layout of the castle beneath them. In truth he hadn’t thought this plan through entirely, but turning back was clearly no longer an option. 

“Stay low and follow me,” Rickon replied, wiping the spit from his sword on his trousers as he contemplated which direction to head in first. Left towards the Godswood seemed less likely to be patrolled. That was reason enough. 

Crouching he began to lead the way along the inner wall toward the first guard tower. _Just like the raids against the Skanes_ , Rickon told himself, feeling his adrenaline spike with excitement. If nothing else, the Boltons seemed as half-witted as the Skanes were based purely on appearances alone.

Pausing for a moment beside the wooden door of the first tower they waited until they overheard one guard begin to complain about the weather. With a smooth motion Rickon opened the door, driving his sword through the chin of the first guard. While Edwine rushed clear across the small space and slit the throat of the second guard. Withdrawing his sword Rickon spared a moment for his companion, who stared at both soldiers with an air of fear and admiration. 

“We don’t have much time,” Rickon muttered trying to rouse Edwine before they were discovered.

“Wait,” Edwine hissed, , “You don’t have a plan do you?” Rickon only shook his head. Stooping to pick up a set of keys from the first guards belt, Edwine quickly locked the door behind them offering Rickon a stiff nod when he was done. 

_No wonder Lyanna trusted him_ , Rickon mused as he continued to lead them down the battlements toward the Godswood. Careful to pause behind the crenulations whenever soldiers passed below them on the outer wall. By the time Rickon had slit the throat of the fifth guard, Edwine had started leaning their corpses against the windows as an extra precaution. 

_They were nearly there_ , close enough to smell the sweet scent of pine and moist earth drifting up from the Godswood. Lanterns glittered along the floor like a thousand stars had fallen down around the heart tree. Watching the crowns of tall sentinels swaying lazily in the night sky he felt his adrenaline flare. _It would not be long now_. 

He briefly considered taking the risk of jumping from the wall, otherwise unsure how to get down from the wall. But no matter how thick the undergrowth was, it wouldn’t break a fall from this height. Cursing under his breath he continued along the wall blindly searching for an alternative when Edwine spotted a felled oak tree leaning against the wall. 

Testing his weight on the smooth wood, Rickon spared a questioning glance at the soldier before descending. Gripping the branches when the soles of his boots slipped along the icy surface. By the time his feet finally touched solid ground again his heart had begun to thud quietly in the back of his mind. 

“Do you hear that?” Edwine asked, his good eye peering up into the darkness. The chorus of dogs barking in the kennels in the distance disrupting an otherwise silent night. 

“Must’ve caught the scent of wolves,” Rickon replied, shrugging off the concern as they made their way toward the weirwood tree. Why else would they call it the wolfswood? 

But when the low, ominous call of a guards horn broke through the silence of the Godswood Rickon felt the shiver return. _There was only one explanation, and taking the wedding by surprise would no longer be an option._

“Shit,” Edwine muttered beside him, his grip tightening around the sword, as his weight shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. 

Wordlessly Rickon pushed on toward the ceremony until they made it to the clearing. Thankful for the pine nettles that muffled their footsteps when the crept closer. 

“Give me the sword,” He muttered, gesturing for his weapon when Edwine reluctantly handed him the grip. 

Catching Lyanna’s figure in the crowd only a few steps from the Lord’s wife, Rickon’s breath caught in his throat. “Go help Lyanna,” he ordered, the rest of the words dying on his lips. _Keep her safe_ . Edwine only nodded, disappearing between towering ironwoods. No matter how much he disliked the other man, Rickon took comfort in knowing Edwine shared his sentiment for her. _Now’s not the time_ , He berated trying to focus while his fingers flexed along the worn grips of his blades experimentally.

 _Be smart_ , Maric’s advice echoed in his thoughts as he waited for guards to find him. But the only guard that came, paused to speak with Lord Bolton before the two broke away sending a ripple of confusion through the congregation. 

Carefully Rickon crept closer, spying his sister's frame standing beside a frail man. _Arya_ . _It had to be_ . She looked beautiful in the white dress, her reflection ghostly in the black pool beneath the tree. But something seemed off in the way she stood, hands clasped tightly around her companions arm, her eyes lowered to the ground. _As if she was trying to disappear_. But he didn’t have time to contemplate her demeanor. Not when his gaze locked on the prey he had dreamt of killing ever since he first found Hallis’s flayed corpse. 

“Theon, hand me my bride,” The groom ordered, one hand outstretched while the guests began to whisper around them. _Theon_. Rickon remembered the stories of the traitor that had killed the two boys for fear of seeming weak. Osha had cursed the Greyjoy a thousand times over that. But the shadow of a man he saw now looked incapable of doing something so horrific. Then again, appearances were deceiving. 

Fingers flexing around the grip of his sword again, Rickon watched his sister’s shoulders shake feebly as Theon began to lead her toward the Bolton. He could no longer afford to wait, _it was now or never_. 

Stepping from the shadows Rickon raised his sword, instantly drawing the attention of the guards closest to him. Mouth gaping at the sight, his sister fainted dragging Theon to his knees across the pond.

“Robb,” Theon croaked, earning a frown from Ramsay until his pale eyes followed his unwavering gaze to Rickons appearance. 

Head tilting almost playfully, his beady little eyes watching his movements in disinterest, “Robb Stark is dead.”

“Aye,” Rickon called out in agreement, eyes trained on the man as he walked. “No thanks to your father's treason.”

“Rickon?” Theon breathed.

“First Robb, now Rickon. Which is it?” Ramsay wondered, rolling his eyes, “I’m beginning to think you’re seeing ghosts Theon. The Starks are dead.”

“Yet here I am,” Rickon replied evenly, beckoning to himself with arms stretched wide.

“You, a Stark?” Ramsay chuckled, as if the idea were ludicrous when the guests began to whisper. “The only Stark here is Arya, my _beautiful_ wife.” 

Cocking his head to one side in faux curiosity Rickon’s eyebrows knit together, “I was under the impression you had to wed first.” 

“Which we will be once my father returns,” Ramsay agreed, returning his attention back to the Greyjoy for confirmation. “isn’t that right, Theon?”  
Rickon grinned, mimicking his tone before Theon could respond, “ _if_ he returns.”

Tensing at the implication Ramsay collected himself with a smirk, recovering quickly, “I believe you just threatened the Warden of the North. An act punishable by death.” 

The guards moved on their own accord, attacking like well trained soldiers did, leaving Rickon to respond in kind. Using the broad side of one sword he blocked the first and second guards attacks with practiced ease. Slicing the throat of a third guard, Rickon felt his self-doubt disappear amidst the sudden chaos. Rickon had spent his whole life learning the art of war, this was no different. It was here he felt most at home if nowhere else.

Lord Manderly had taken up arms, as the clearing broke out into battle. Lyanna and Edwine beside him fending off Bolton guards. For a moment her brown eyes found his, before Rickon’s attention returned to the men circling him. 

Feeling the guards blood seep through his clothes Rickon licked the iron taste from his lips. Spinning his left sword he stabbed the first guard in the gut, while his right hand drove its point through yet another's neck up to the hilt. _Three down._ Rolling his shoulders Rickon dared the last two men to attack. Deflecting one attack as if he had swatted a fly and leaving him dead with a sharp twist. 

Even now, his eyes never left Ramsay. Watching the bastard back away toward the edge of the pool. _That's right coward,_ Rickon thought with bitter joy, _run_. The weight of his wrath evident when he sank both blades into the collarbones of the final guard. 

Kicking the corpse to the ground with one foot as he continued to cross the clearing. Red rivulets of blood and sinew dripped from his twin swords staining the ground at his feet. 

Determined not to give up, Ramsay drew his sword in time to block Rickons attack as he closed the distance between them in two quick paces. 

“You’re not half as good as you think you are,” Ramsay taunted, pale eyes staring up at him soullessly behind clashing steel. 

_Oh but I am_ , Rickon thought at the dawning realization that Ramsay had made one fatal mistake. Lips peeled back to bare his teeth, Rickon grinned at the memory of the clearing only a few weeks prior. 

Shifting his weight back, Rickon sent a sharp kick to the Boltons ankle. _Just as Lyanna had done to him_. Forced to his knees when his legs crippling beneath him, Ramsay let out a sharp grunt at the impact.

“Any last words?” Rickon snarled, too absorbed with pressing the edge of his blade against Ramsay's throat to notice the movement in his peripheral. 

“You’re nothing but a savage,” Ramsay replied, throwing a fistful of pine nettles from the ground up at Rickon, blinding him. 

Coughing, the young Stark stumbled, his senses were momentarily heightened as he fought to rub the filth from his eyes. Disoriented and confused, Rickon hardly had time to register his new surroundings when a scream cut through the silence in tandem with a sudden piercing pain. 

Dropping one sword in favor of clutching his shoulder, Rickons fingertips grazed the rough shaft of a Bolton arrow. _Fuck_ , he thought when his sight finally confirmed the worst, _so much for healing_.

Glancing up at Ramsay, Rickon’s eyes narrowed as the man drew another arrow, _Had the coward really relied on a bow from only a few paces away?_ His rage boiled over into fury at the thought. Teeth bared he snapped the shaft clean in half with one hand. Lunging toward the coward without care or second thought. 

He had anticipated the bone jarring of typical icy Northern waters as he tackled Ramsay into the pond. But the cold never came. Instead Rickon found himself drifting through the warm black depths of the pool toward the bubbling depths. The weirwoods pale limbs staring down at them like a second moon in the night sky. 

But the peaceful moment dissipated when Ramsay’s wide shoulders began to struggle against his hold. Releasing him, Rickon followed suit, kicking off the soft sediment to propel himself back to the surface. 

Breaking through the night air with a deep breath, he twisted to face the coward again. But Ramsay had already crawled back onto land, his clothes clinging to him as he came to rest beside Arya’s sleeping figure. 

“She’s beautiful, isn’t she?” Ramsay mused, drawing the attention of others around them. Paddling forward Rickon paused at the familiar sound of a bowstring being drawn to his right. Eyeing the unseen attacker, he found Theon standing above him clutching a Bolton bow between shaking hands. His arrow trained on Rickons drenched form. _Once a traitor, always a traitor_ , Rickon wanted to say before he thought better of it.

“A proposition!’ The Bolton offered, catching Rickon’s attention when he stroked his sister's face sweetly, “a life for a life, what do you say?” Eyeing the young Stark, Ramsay grinned, elaborating, “yours for hers.” 

Gaze flickering over his sisters form, still faint from the sight of him, Rickon stilled. “Leave now and I swear she won’t be harmed,” Ramsay swore with a sinister smile. The instinct to turn to Lyanna for advice nearly overwhelmed him, but Rickon would be damned if he gave the bastard the benefit of knowing his uncertainty. 

Biting his tongue until the taste of iron filled his mouth he unclenched his jaw and shook his head. Briefly aware of the way the black hair dye had begun to drip across his cheeks. “your vows mean nothing, _coward,_ ” Rickon bit out, spitting his disgust into the pool. 

“A shame,” Ramsay mused with a shrug, “though I’ll be sure to remind her who to blame for her misfortune.” Lips twisting into a sadistic smile, the Bolton waving to the nearest guards, “get him out of the water.” 

Reluctantly the two men waded in, the blood on their studded leather washing away with each step until their cold hands grabbed hold of his arms. Shaking them off, Rickon stepped out of the pool on his own, feeling Theons arrow following him with every move. If he was going to die, he would rather do it on his feet. 

“Strip,” Ramsay ordered, surprising onlookers when he stood with an expectant smirk. Refusing, Rickon struggled against one guard while the other pulled a dagger and cut the fabric down his back.

Shivering when the cool night air brushed against his wet skin, Rickon sensed every eye in the Godswood on him when the cloth fell away to bare his wildling ink. 

“A savage indeed,” Ramsay noted, voice thick with amusement when he began to slow clap, “Ned Stark would have killed you himself.”

Trying to forget the image of his own father hunting him Rickon wretched himself free of the guards grip _. I’ll show you savage_ , he wanted to snarl, _when I rip your throat out with my teeth_. “Better a savage than a coward,” he replied coldly, head-butting the guard and stooping to pick the dagger up, stabbing the man before he could think twice. 

Ramsay seemed more disappointed at the action than anything. But the demonstration had served his purpose. Rickon was nothing like his noble father. Turning his attention to Theon the bastard smiled, “Kill him.”

He had made peace with death years ago. The same night they had been forced to leave Maester Luwin behind in this very place. Then again when he lost Osha to the sickness. Taking a deep breath Rickon raised his chin defiantly, eyes leveling with the weeping eyes of the heart tree. If the Old Gods had truly forsaken him, he would welcome death with open arms. 

But for all his shaking, Theon’s arrow never left it’s shelf. “No,” the traitor finally replied, albeit meekly, sending another rush of surprise through the crowd. 

Rickon felt a strange sense of sudden self-confidence at the defiance and the flicker of confusion in Ramsay's eyes. 

Brandishing the dagger Rickon cocked his head to one side, “what? Did you really think you could kill the Starks?” he challenged, beginning to close the distance between them. “Take their home,” three steps forward and he had passed the guards he killed earlier. “Marry their daughter,” pausing just shy of a hair. Rickon leaned in, catching the tremble in Ramsays lip when his voice dropped to a growl, “And the North would simply _forget_ your family’s treason?” 

He denied Ramsay the dignity of a response, driving the tip of his dagger through the Boltons right eye without warning. Watching the man's knees buckle, Rickon grabbed a fistful of Ramsay's hair, twisting it until his lone eye stared up at him behind unshed tears. “I did not forget.” Savoring the pain he saw, Rickon swallowed his own emotions. He had meant to kill the bastard at first, but since the man refused to die the Stark found himself suddenly entertaining another idea. 

The clatter of swords falling onto the soft earth around them pulled him back to reality. Searching Ramsay briefly to confirm he was no longer armed, Rickon held the dark hair tightly. Ignoring the shooting pain in his shoulder at the action. Confident that Ramsay wouldn’t try to run now that his men had surrendered, Rickon wiped the dagger on his trousers. “Find me a rope,” He ordered, to no one in particular.

Scanning the clearing he felt his adrenaline begin to wane when he spotted Lyanna still wielding her bloodied sword beside two slain Bolton soldiers. Edwine stood nearby, blood seeping from a wound on his thigh. Relief poured through him at the sight of her. 

A little further away Lord Manderly sat injured across the pond, a dozen of his men lying injured or dead around him while a dozen more tended to their Lord’s wounds. Lord Bolton's wife lay at the edge of the clearing, dead by the looks of it. It beckoned the question, _where was the Lord and why hadn’t he returned?_

When a Manderly soldier returned with rope, Rickon made quick work tying a knot around Ramsay's hands. Dragging the Bolton to his feet with a growl when he was done, “Stand up.” 

Spitting blood Ramsay struggled for a moment before standing. With a firm hand around the rope Rickon pressed the point of his blade into the small of his captives back and began to lead him through the crowd. Intent on carrying out well-deserved justice.

Disregarding Lyanna’s questioning gaze as they walked Rickon spared a moment to pause and address Theon. He had dropped the arrow, though the bow was still clutched between crooked fingers. “I should kill you for what you did,” Rickon observed. But something about the gaunt cheeks and frail frame stemmed the hate he had carried for the Greyjoy. “Leave, tonight, and never return.” Rickon finally decided, “a life for a life.” 

Eyeing Arya still passed out on the floor, he waved Edwine over to his side. “Get her into the castle and find Lord Bolton.” 

“She’s not -,” stuttering when the two men turned their attention to him Theon lowered his eyes, “her name is Jeyne Poole.” 

Eyebrows knit together, Rickon looked back at the girl, trying to draw the meaning from his words. “What do you mean?” Feeling guilty when he realized he wouldn’t even know if the traitor was lying to him. “Who- Where is my sister?”

“I don’t know,” Tears pricked the corners of Theon’s eyes, his voice barely more than a whisper, “No one knows.”

Beside him Edwine shuffled his weight, waiting for his response. “Makes no difference now,” Rickon mused. He had done what he needed to protect the girl and take back the castle, _as promised_. Whatever happened to her now was not his concern. “see her taken to the keep.”

With a nod Edwine pulled the girl to her feet. The action brought an unexpected bubble of laughter from Ramsay’s lips, earning him a stiff jab with the sword as Rickon returned the focus to the plan. 

Together he led the way out of the Godswood and out into the courtyard. Lord Manderly’s host had made quick work of the castle gates once battle had broken out. Around them soldiers stopped to stare at them as they passed by. Bolton soldiers dropped to their knees in surrender when two Mormont men finally hung Roose’s corpse over the side of the inner wall beside a lone Stark banner. _So that’s what happened to him_ , Rickon remarked duly. The sight brought another rumble of laughter from the coward. 

Blood dribbling down from Ramsay's ruined eye to his chin by the time they passed the kennels. The sounds of the dogs barking grew with every passing step. 

“Open the gate!” Rickon commanded when they finally came to stand beneath the arch of the Huntersgate. _It took a monster to kill a monster._

Above them, Manderly men began to lift the gate and lower the drawbridge. The black void of the wolfswood at night greeted them across the moat. Releasing his grip on Ramsay, Rickon turned to point toward the tree-line, “ _run_.” 

Hesitating, Ramsay tested the strength of the rope against his wrists before daring to speak, “What?”

“It’s simple really,” Rickon replied, “I want you to run.” Ignoring the feeling that he was being watched when the cold winds rustled through the crowns of the trees. “Consider it my _mercy_.” Overhearing his command, the crowd that had gathered behind them began to protest. But Rickon held steadfast in his convictions, watching the emotions flicker across Ramsay’s face.

When the coward made no move to leave Rickon dug the tip of his dagger in harder, “Run, or I’ll slit your throat here and now.” 

Cautiously the coward began the walk, slowly at first until he had crossed the drawbridge and reality seemed to set in. With each step Ramsay picked up pace until he was running the best he could with bound hands and a blind eye. Rickon could almost feel the hope rise in Ramsays mind as the coward made a break for the woods. So blissfully unaware of what lurked ahead until it was too late. 

His wolf dreams hadn’t done Shaggydog justice when the direwolf leapt from the shadows. Towering above his prey, his jaws closed around Ramsay's head as if it was a toy. Ripping the body clean in half with a bone chilling crunch, and drenching the ground in a shower of blood. 

Tongue licking the blood from his muzzle, A silent fear swept across the crowd behind him when familiar green eyes rose to meet Rickons gaze. For all the years it had been, it felt like only a second had passed. A piece of him wanted to close the distance. To bury his face in shaggy’s fur, and feel the heartbeat that had lulled him to sleep so many moons ago. But Rickon dismissed the foolish thought. Shaggy was all but wild now. _A savage_ , just like him. And there was no taming a wild heart. 

The silence was swiftly broken when Only Lyanna dared to break the silence, raising her sword and calling his name out with a shout, “Long live Rickon Stark!” a wide smile gracing her features when Rickon found her brown eyes staring at him proudly. 

“To the savage wolf!” Lord Manderly added beside her, attempting to raise his sword despite leaning heavily against two companions for support. 

  
Standing against the moonlit backdrop of his direwolf carving a bloody path through the snow with a half eaten corpse, Rickon let their words wash over him. Numb with cold and pain, he closed his eyes and sighed contentedly. He had kept his promise after all. Killing the bloody Boltons, saving the girl, _whoever she was_ , and taken the castle back. He was finally a free man again.


	7. Cursed with Two Paths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Faced with his new reality, Rickon forges an impossible promise and decides to indulge his curiosity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the delay in posting this chapter - my birthday was last week, and I took some much needed time off to recharge my batteries during this quarantine. But getting back on the writing horse is twice as hard as getting off and it took me a little longer to finish this than I expected! Please enjoy

The bitter taste of iron coated his tongue when he woke in the comfort of a warm bed. Shielding his eyes from the pale rays of morning sunlight filtering through the window to his right, Rickon squinted in an effort to gain his bearings with a low groan. Slowly the grey shades of the Lords room came into focus, until reality chased away the last of his wishful dreaming. 

Rolling to one side his furs tickled as they pooled around the bare skin of his waist. It had been days since his companions had insisted Rickon take his brother's crown and call his bannerman. Wyman had insisted this room was his to use after they had defeated the Boltons. That had been days ago, yet he still felt himself a stranger unable to reconcile with his father's belongings. Instead Rickon fell in his cups with the sinking realization that he might never return to Skagos after all.

So he had done the only thing he could, sulk and sleep. At least in his dreams Rickon Stark was a free man. He hunted great one horned beasts, fished in the fjord, relaxed in the shade of weirwood trees, and fought in the cavernous mazes beneath great mountain peaks. 

Rickon supposed he should be thankful for the promotion. Though he could not find it in his heart to feel anything but tired. The arrow wound in his shoulder hadn’t helped, aching with pain whenever he moved. Whoever had dragged him from the Great Hall up to this miserable room had done their job dressing him. Most of his wounds had begun to heal beneath discolored bandages. But Rickon had continued to prod the tender edges of healing flesh with twisted intrigue. Bringing back the piercing memory of wood and stone tearing through flesh. An act that made him flinch without fail.

_ Here I am only a puppet _ , he thought bitterly. Hate boiled beneath his skin wherever he looked. _This place was not his_. It had belonged to the father he never knew. A man who lost his head for honor. Rickon snorted at the foolishness. He was nothing like his Lord father.  _ The Savage Wolf _ , they had called him, and his pride swelled. _They feared him_. There was nothing honorable about the way he had cut down a dozen soldiers and fed Ramsay to Shaggydog. He had wanted revenge plain as day. He wondered what his father would think of him if he could see Rickon now. But a cruel and hateful piece of himself knew he would never gain the satisfaction of finding an answer to such impossible questions. 

Clenching his jaw, Rickon shook the lingering thoughts as the sudden urge for a bath took hold of him. Shifting his weight he stood. The warm stone floor felt strange against the cool air of the open window as he crossed the room toward the solar. It reminded him of the mornings he had woken stiff and sore on a warm cliffside during a hunt. 

With one hand he opened the oak door to the solar while gingerly undoing the knot of his breeches with the other before lowering himself into the stone bath.

Gooseflesh pricked his skin at the heat of the spring water, and flourished when he reached for a basin to pour water over his head. For a moment he let himself imagine he was home again, with the seaspray of the Skagosi shore against his face. But when he opened his eyes the dark caves brightened and turned into the chiseled granite walls of Winterfell. 

Staring at his reflection in the water he tried to collect his thoughts. Most of Wylla’s hair dye had washed out in the pool beneath the heart tree. But the remnants washed out easily enough. Its iridescent ink trailing across his skin and twisting like a snake where it dripped and swirled into the bath. 

The calloused pads of his fingertips had begun to shrivel by the time Rickon finally decided to dress again. Dipping his hands beneath the surface one final time he ran the water over his head and rubbed his face tiredly. 

With that he stood, shaking the water from his auburn curls as he draped a cloth around his waist. Padding back into the Lords room he hovered over to the trunk at the edge of his bed. The original wardrobe had been burned along with most other Stark clothes, but the maids had succeeded in hiding a few lone pieces amidst the chaos all those years ago. _The North Remembers_. Rickon found it difficult to imagine whatever had possessed those women to save something as trivial as clothes. But then the North had always been a strangely loyal place. 

Tugging the straps free he rested a wet palm against the cold iron lock plate. The racing direwolf sigil had been etched into the faded leather of the lid as he opened it to reveal the only Stark clothes he owned. 

A dusty grey cloak covered the random assortment of clothes and belongings. Ruffling through dresses, tunics, belts, and studded armor haphazardly, It was apparent that he had outgrown his brothers when he settled for a pair of the longest breeches he could find. The simple brown fabric bunched uncomfortably around his crotch and ended a fair bit above his ankles. 

“Good, you’re awake,” Lyanna’s voice drifted into his consciousness from where she stood in the doorway. Though she afforded him the privacy of looking away from his bare chest, the faint smile playing at the corner of her lips tugged at something deep within him.  _ Gods save her, _ Rickon mused closing the lid of the trunk, she had a knack for finding him in compromising positions.

Realizing Rickon wasn’t likely to continue dressing, Lyanna moved to recline in the lounge chair beside the quiet hearth. Wordlessly she noted the bowls of supper left uneaten at his bedside. Hunger clawed at him occasionally, but the cold food they had brought him was tasteless compared to the fresh hot prey in his dreams. 

“The Lords chambers,” she observed, breaking the ice, “fitting for the next King of the North.” 

“I’m not a King,” Rickon muttered, dropping all pretense. If she had come here for that she would be sorely disappointed. _They could find someone else._

If Lyanna noticed his sour mood, she hid it well. “You will be once the Northern Houses answer the call.” 

Eyebrows knit together he kept silent as he fought to remember what the call meant. Edwine had explained it the night of their celebration, but Rickon had been too drunk to care. Now it only served as a lingering headache. 

When he didn’t respond she hesitated, the soles of her boots shuffling against the rough stone floor for a moment before she continued. “We should discuss the Boltons.” 

“What is there to discuss?” Rickon cut in. He had been so consumed with his own revenge, it had never occurred to him what justice he would serve to the soldiers that had knelt under his new lordship. Now he hardly had the energy to lift a finger, let alone ponder the consequence of giving strangers the mercy of an axe or sending a message with a flock of blood eagles. 

"What will you do with them?" 

Shrugging, he tried to focus on something other than her, "I'm not sure."

“And what about your sister?” Lyanna continued, switching topics as easily as she wielded a sword. 

“What about her?” He muttered, tiring of her inquisition, “We’re no closer to finding her.” Picking up the fresh bandages the maids had left from the table beside her, Rickon pondered the possibilities as he bound his wounds. “Perhaps she’s safe, as I was before you dragged me from my home.” He could not resist the jab, “Or better, _dead_.” As morbid as the thought was, he prayed it was the latter. At least then she was sure to be safe in the heavens, laughing with the Nameless Gods as hard as she had in his memories. 

But his words had struck an unintentional nerve with Lyanna. “Count your blessings,” her voice was cold as it had been when she argued for his cause at White Harbor. “Not everyone is so fortunate.” 

“Blessings?” He replied incredulously, forgetting himself as fury swept through him. “There is no fortune in wishing my sister life while men like Ramsay still stand.” What Gods would be so cruel? 

Fury and pain twisted her features in a flicker before the calm familiar mask settled again, “My sister died for your brother's cause.” The words hit him like a kick to the chest. Chasing the air from his lungs and leaving him stunned. 

He wanted to chastise himself for not learning the truth sooner. But he had always assumed her investment in his cause had come from her secret admiration.  “Ly-,” Choking on his words, Rickon was swiftly interrupted by a knock on the door. 

With that Lyanna stood, sparing Rickon a sad look as she turned and answered the newcomer.  He recognized Edwine mutter something behind the thick oakwood before Lyanna dismissed him. The low hum of horns blowing in the distance broke the tension between them when she finally met his gaze, “It appears Davos made good on his promise, King Stannis is expecting you at his camp.” 

“He's late,” Rickon replied, trying in vain to return to their usual banter. But one glance at the way her eyebrows knit together in worry, and he knew it would take more than an apology to repair their friendship. 

“Swear something to me.” Lyanna’s voice was barely more than a whisper, though she was half a room away. “Whatever they ask of you in return for this marriage, do not give them the North.” Rickon could not recall a time she looked so vulnerable. “Darcey died for this. Don’t let her death mean nothing.” 

Nodding dumbly, Rickon only watched as Lyanna’s shoulders dropped with the weight of her words. He wasn’t sure where the understanding between them came from. Perhaps he missed his siblings more than he cared to admit, even to himself. Or simply because after all she had done for him, with him, he couldn’t fathom denying her this one small act. Whatever it was, her wish was his command.

Long fingers smoothed the fabric of her cloak at her sides as she opened the door again. “You should dress,” Lyanna broke the silence with a soft smile, effectively ending the conversation. “Unless you plan on greeting your future wife in the nude.” 

Unable to suppress a smile of his own Rickon felt relief flood through him at her words. “What of the night at the pond?” He replied with the sly cock of an eyebrow, blue eyes following Lyanna as she closed the door behind her. 

With that Rickon was left to the silence of the Lord's chambers again. But after days of lying in bed dreaming of Skagos, he suddenly found himself more interested in this  _ King _ and his daughter than anything else. 

Finishing his bandages quickly, Rickon laced his boots before pulling a linen shirt over his head and choosing a quilted grey tunic from the trunk. With rough hands he buckled the leather studded chest-plate over the fabric and tightened the sword belt around his waist. He missed the simple furs he used to wear, but there was no denying the appeal when he paused beside the looking glass. Even wildling kings afforded themselves nice things, who was he to deny free things? 

Navigating the twisting hallways of the great keep Rickon found himself crossing a bridge to an unremarkable tower, catching a glimpse of the courtyard below, before taking the spiraling staircase two steps at a time. 

Stepping out into the courtyard Rickon spotted Edwine standing beside a beautiful black destrier amidst a sea of soldiers dressed in black, grey and white. Making his way to the mans side, Rickon noted the way the purple bruises around his black eye had begun to fade. A lingering reminder of their fight. Beside him, carrying the flag of House Stark, Lyanna sat atop her own horse. While a Manderly guard mounted beside her in place of Wyman who's injuries during the fight had left him bedridden. 

“My King,” Lyanna acknowledged, capturing his attention again.

“My Lady,” Rickon returned with an easy smile. Acutely aware that he had left everyone waiting when another horn blew overhead. Moving to accept the reins from Edwine, Rickon mounted the black destrier stiffly. Suppressing the urge to wince when his sore muscles ached at the movement. He would not give these men the satisfaction of knowing Ramsay had hurt him. Even if most of them had witnessed it with their own eyes. 

The drawbridges of the eastern gate had already been set to lower across the moats when Rickon spurred the beast forward. 

The flicker of the Stark sigil lifting in the wind beside him as they rode through the gates sent a shiver through him. Who had last had ridden out of these gates beneath the leaping direwolf? The thought plagued him as hooves beat against the wooden bridges and through the nearly deserted Wintertown. And though he hated to acknowledge his rank, Rickon knew there was no denying his title when the ruby flags of their emissaries began to dot the horizon beyond the first hill crest. Not if he meant to honor his promise to Lyanna. 

* * *

They had passed near a dozen flaming hearts fluttering in the rolling winds by the time they had reached the camp. Rickon had to suppress a smile at the column of men and women that greeted them. These traditions still amused him, but Maric had taught him the value of learning new things. If it meant suffering through the bland ingenuine greetings of rich men, then so be it. More comical still, none of the onlookers looked the part of royalty in their rugged armor and simple dresses. 

Spotting the familiar face of Davos Seaworth, Rickon dismounted more easily than before to offer the seafarer a tight hug. “It is good to see you again!”

“And you,” Davos replied before stepping back to introduce the line of their companions. “You stand in the presence of Stannis Baratheon, First of his name, King of Westeros, the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the first men. Protector of the realm. Lord of Dragonstone and Storms End.” 

The only thing Roose and Stannis seemed to share were a thin set of pale lips. The two were otherwise incomparable. Where Roose was average of height, weight, and color. Stannis stood near a head taller than every other man in attendance. Broad shouldered with a set of dark eyes, he commanded a sense of presence Rickon could only dream of. It was enough to cause a strange sense of admiration for the southron king. 

Beside him a plainly woman raised her chin when Davos continued, “His wife, Queen Selyse Baratheon.” Rickon had seen prettier wildlings with far less teeth. But he supposed the woman was simply miserable from standing in the muddy field.

“It’s an honor,” Rickon minded his manners as he offered them each a stiff nod while Lyanna came to rest behind him. 

“This is Rickon Stark, my liege,” Davos continued.

“It is my understanding you need men,” Stannis replied, skipping the formalities gruffly. 

“With respect,” Lyanna interrupted from behind, “he is Rickon Stark,  _ King _ in the North, and  _ Lord _ of Winterfell,” Lyanna interrupted behind them, refusing to let the new titles slip away from them. 

Swallowing thickly, Davos noted the way Stannis ground his teeth at the interruption, “Apologies, my Lady.”

“I did not catch your name,” The red woman beside Stannis spoke up, wisps of her ruby hair lifting with wind as she interrupted yet again. 

“Lady Lyanna of Bear Island,” Rickon cut in, allowing Davos a reprieve, “my most trusted advisor.” 

“I was under the assumption your elder sister, Alysanne, would be Lady of Bear Island,” Stannis finally spoke up. 

“You’re mistaken,” Lyanna said evenly. Uninterested in their conversation, Rickon paid them no mind as he searched the crowd for the princess that he was meant to marry. When he spotted a tall hooded figure standing behind the King and Queen. 

Keeping his gaze on the mysterious figure Rickon finally returned to the conversation to answer the Kings comment, “As it stands, I no longer need your men.” Rickon tried his best to temper the joy he gained from watching Stannis clench his jaw. “However, I would still be inclined to marry your daughter.” 

The comment sent a ripple through the crowd, causing Stannis to pause and cast Davos a sidelong glare. Only the red woman’s gentle hand against his arm finally pushed him to act. Deflatedly the King moved to allow the hooded figure behind him to step forward. 

The ends of her black cloak were stained with mud, yet her gold dress shone beneath the folds with each tentative step until she stood in front of Rickon. Uncertain about what was about to transpire, he thumbed the pommel of his swords for reassurance. Nimble fingers lifted to lift the shadow from her face in tandem with a sudden gust of wind. 

“The Princess Shireen,” Davos presented. 

“It is my pleasure, King Rickon,” the Princess smiled, bowing gently as she spoke. And for a moment Rickon swore even the unforgiving Northern sun peered out behind her grey clouds to shine down on them. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this is shorter than my usual chapters, but I promise it's for good reason! As always if you enjoyed, please feel free to leave a kudos & comment your favorite part! (mine is Lyanna's confession)


	8. A Confluence of Fate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> News of Rickon's return spreads across Westeros, leaving his sisters reeling with uncertainty while fate takes its course.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo I know I haven't updated this fic in months- mostly because 2020 has been a hellscape for everyone including me. But I recently bought a new macbook so I'm trying to make the most of it. I've also gotten a surprising amount of off-hand comments on previous chapters in this fic that made me question whether I should continue writing in this verse at all. Y'all it's a *fic* I'm not GRRM, I don't claim to be, and I'm certainly not on par to writing the real ending for ASOIAF. This is semi-canon compliant post-canon. Trust me my beta fact checks the hell out of me before you guys even get the chance. please just, pretty please, be kind. Thank you <3

Watching the little ones chasing each other in the courtyard Sansa fought the urge to pull at the loose thread she had spotted on the seam of her sleeve earlier. She knew it was only a matter of time before Petyr found another way into her husband's heart. The thought settled like a heavy cloud above her since Robyn’s passing.  _ Such a frail boy, _ the castle had whispered at his vigil. Nothing like her husband and his only heir. 

She should have known then that Petyr’s plan would come to fruition. With Harry as Lord of the Vale her time hiding in the shadows had come to an end. Sansa could still hear the ringing silence the night she stepped into the hall. Just as Petyr had promised, she thought, mouth pinching in worry. Sworn swords raised in a clatter of iron as she passed beneath them draped in white silks embroidered with the snarling direwolf. The very image of a true Lady. It had felt like a dream. Now more than ever, with the promise of retaking the North still unanswered. 

_ We must bid our time _ , Harry had whispered whenever she inquired. But she knew better. With winter fast approaching and the scheming Lannisters closing in, another failed war would not fare well for them. 

“How is my beautiful wife?” Harry interrupted her wandering thoughts when he found her sitting on the balcony.  _ Speak of the bloody devil _ . “Why are you not by the fire?” Firm hands rubbed her aching shoulders while he placed a firm kiss to her forehead. The flicker of concern made her want to laugh. How easily he forgot her. 

“I needed some fresh air,” She replied with a kind smile, shifting when he sat down beside her. Since the announcement of her sister's marriage to the Bolton bastard, Harry’s responsibilities, and the birth of their youngest daughter Aemma, Sansa found herself longing for company. 

“Don’t stay too long, you’ll catch a cold,” The words were enough to dispel the cloud of worry hanging above her earlier. Unable to suppress her amusement she leaned into him affectionately. 

“Is there news from the North?” She wondered, attention drifting back to Arya and the Boltons while Aemma chased Osric in the courtyard below. If only her sister was here, Sansa mused ruefully, what would she think of her daughters? 

“Not the North,” Harry answered. Capturing her clasped palms in his own he followed her gaze to their children, “But there’s news from the South.”

What vile things were the Lannisters hatching now? Sansa wondered idly, still watching their children. 

“A boy requested an audience in White Harbor,” Harry continued seemingly unfazed by her quiet. “....Calls himself  _ Rickon Stark _ .” Gooseflesh prickled her skin at the name, flushing down her spine as her eyebrows knit together in confusion.  _ Impossible _ . Theon killed them. “Rumor has it he plans on riding North for your sister's wedding.” 

“We must bid our time,” Sansa interjected, surprising both of them while she reeled with the news, “Those were your words.” 

“And I stand by them,” Harry agreed, blue eyes capturing hers. 

“If what you say is true, our time is now,” Sansa insisted, twisting her hands to clutch his. Dread bloomed in her chest at the possibility of losing yet another brother riding to their enemies. Her prayers would all be for naught. 

“And if the boy lied? What if this is yet another Lannister plot to root you out?” Harry asked, undoubtedly voicing the concerns of his bannermen.  _ A court of fools _ , Sansa thought bitterly. Robb had made quick work of his enemies, as they should now. Otherwise the North would be lost forever. 

“Lord of the Vale and you’re frightened by Lannisters _? _ ” Sansa challenged, breaking away from his touch. Anger flickered across his features when she stood. “Gather the banners, at best you will win at his side.”

“At worst we will lose more men in a senseless war,” Harry finished still watching her. 

The loose thread on her sleeve unraveled beneath her fingertips. She knew then how Petyr had gotten to him. Always the clever puppeteer. Condemning Rickon to fight and die by his sword before their conversation began. 

What would her mother say? Sansa thought as she watched the late summer snow settle around them. Her Lady mother had been a Tully.  _ Family, duty, honor _ . In truth Harry and the children were the only family she had left. And yet Sansa could not shake the memories of her baby brother. She had been there for his birth. Had curled up beside him when he was nursing and held his hand for his first steps. Tears pricked her eyes. He was so little in those memories. She imagined he looked like Robb now, swallowing her sentiment. If Rickon was truly in White Harbor prepared to ride North for Arya, was she not bound by blood to aid him?  _ In winter we must protect ourselves _ , her father's ghost advised calmly. 

“Do what you must,” She relented, breaking the stretch of silence. “But I swear to your Harry,  _ do nothing _ , and you will find no love in my heart hereafter.” 

The sound of his sigh carried over her shoulder, before he stood. It was not the first vow she had made, and surely not the last. “Supper will be soon,” he offered bleakly before leaving her alone in the corridor again. For a moment she felt satisfaction knowing her words wounded him. But it did nothing to kill the dread swelling in her belly. 

Balling her fists Sansa’s thoughts wandered as Serena and Aemma raced after Osric in the courtyard below. How many moons had it been since she had run carefree through the halls of Winterfell? How often had she been forced to watch men unfold chaos around her since then? Some nights she still felt herself a girl playing at being someone else. 

_ I am Lady of the Vale _ , She reminded herself coldly when it occurred to her. It was time she acted like it.  _ I will be fair and gentle _ , she thought as she gathered her skirts. Someone who listens to their people.  _ But first they will listen to me _ . 

Heels clicking loudly against the stone floor of the Eyrie as she made her way to her chambers, Sansa dismissed her maids with the wave of a hand. Aware that time was slipping by, she rooted through her dresser for the cloak. She had been taught well. Trained to obey. Yet she had kept this. The white fabric stained with the black blood of long forgotten enemies. The Hounds gift for a stolen kiss. With practiced hands she tied it around her throat and shivered at its weight. The ghost of her reflection greeted her in the tall looking glass at the bedside. And for a moment Sansa found herself remembering Margaery on her wedding day, dressed in white roses and fine fabrics. Winter was upon them. Soon the flowers would freeze in their fields, and the lions would sleep in their dens. But the wolves, the wolves would come again, heralding their return in the winds of winter.

Lingering just long enough to spot Harry's prized knife laying on his night stand. The handle was carved from ivory that glinted in the firelight. Tucking it into the folds of her skirt she hurried back to the balcony. Careful to avoid watchful eyes. It wouldn’t be long until supper now and Petyr would waste no time sending his little birds after her. 

With a steadying breath Sansa made her way down the stairs into the courtyard. “Mother, mother! Look!” Serena shouted from below, carrying little Aemma haphazardly between her arms. 

Offering them a wistful smile Sansa knelt in the snow to smooth a soft hand over her daughters untidy auburn braids and examine the welt on her forehead.  _ Love only your children _ , the queen had taught her once,  _ that front a mother has no choice.  _ But she had been wrong _.  _ There was space enough in her broken heart to love the ones she had lost. 

“She tripped again.” Osric supplied trailing after them sheepishly. Despite the likeness to his father, her oldest carried himself like a true Northman. Honorable and honest in every way.  _ So much like his uncles _ , her pride and fear swelled at the notion.  _ Gods give me the strength to do what I did not do before. _

“Nothing a warm cup of milk and honey can’t fix,” She soothed before glancing over her shoulder at the balcony above. It would not be long now. 

Swallowing her doubts as Sansa gathered the girls between her arms. “There is something I must do,” she whispered quickly, “I expect the three of you to mind your manners with the Septa and Maesters.” 

When Serena began to protest Sansa hushed her softly and carried on, “I won’t be long.” Catching the quiver of her son's lower lip Sansa felt her own heart desperately clutching her own resolve. “Listen to your father, keep your sisters safe.” She ordered cupping his cheek until his blonde hair shook with a vigorous nod of acknowledgement.

“Where are you going?” Osric managed to choke out, bringing back memories of her own brothers. And for a moment the words nearly slipped from between her lips when reason took hold again. She would not risk burdening him, any of them, with this decision. 

“I’ll be back before you know I’ve left.” She reassured instead, leaning forward to pull them into a tight embrace. Kissing each on the forehead Sansa pulled little Aemma’s clutching hands away from her neck before standing again. Pulling the hood up over her head Sansa forced herself to focus on the task ahead. 

The news of her brother's return was ushered out on the wings of four-and-thirty ravens by the night's end. When the guards searched the grounds of the castle for their missing Lady they accounted for all but one woman, the bastard mountain guide. 

* * *

The Riverlands fell silent as the lone rider passed underfoot. Watchful eyes scanned the surroundings. Careful to avoid twisted roots while they ate from a cluster of late summer grapes with one hand. 

Maidenpool had been smaller than they remembered when the ship had docked in the port. The sands of time had frozen the seaport to the tune of their childhood memories, only the sigils fluttering in the wind had changed. Though they hadn’t stayed long after spotting the corpses swinging from the famous rose walls. They had meant to travel south but had wandered north from the familiar Kingsroad to avoid travelers and soldiers alike. 

The days since their return had drifted between shades of grey like an endless dream. But the sudden sound of laughter up ahead disrupted wandering thoughts. 

Pausing along the tree-line beside a long forgotten Inn the rider waited to hear the sound again. How far from the Kingsroad had she wandered? But the laughter rang out again before they could conjure an answer. 

“Boys!” A woman called out after them just as two children raced across the clearing, clutching their training swords between tiny fingers. Their twin smiles quickly dissolving into uncertainty with the presence of the hooded stranger. 

“Hello,” the rider offered, breaking the silence as the woman finally caught up. 

“Can we help ye?” She wondered, preoccupied with gathering the weapons as she spoke. 

“I’ve come for the brotherhood,” the rider replied, though they had not known what they were searching for until that moment. “Have you seen them?’

Aware of the distinct sound of a bowstring being readied from the canopy of trees above, the rider stilled as another figure dropped into view, “What business do you have with them?” The boy couldn’t have been more than ten and two, but the fletched arrow between his fingers did not waver as he balanced precariously on a thin branch. 

“Forgive the boy,” The woman replied, waving his concern away before the rider could answer. “The inn’s got fresh food and beds, you’re welcome t’ stay as long as ye like.” Turning she sent the twins ahead with a firm kick of her boot, leading the way toward the shadow of an old building. Cautious of their hospitality the rider slid from the saddle, dropping the grapes in favor of the reins as they led the pale grey mare toward the hitching rail. 

The hood of their cloak fell away as their eyes adjusted to the dimly lit Inn. Maidenpool hadn’t been the only place frozen in time it seemed. Settling for a bench close to the bar, the rider fumbled through their pockets for a gold dragon when the woman returned with a tankard of ale. 

“Two silvers for a bed,” she replied with a smile, accepting the coin though she made no move to leave.

“Thanks.” Sizing each other up, the rider accepted the drink when another figure stepped through the doorway behind them dragging the boy from the trees.

“Count yourself lucky I was the one that found you,” the man all but growled when he finally let go of the boy's ear. A head taller than her, broad shouldered and clad in chainmail that rattled against the sword that swung from his hip. The rider couldn’t shake a foreboding sense of familiarity when his attention turned towards them. “Who’s this?”

“A guest,” The woman retorted dryly, busying herself with wiping down the countertop. 

“I’ve come for the brotherhood,” the rider added, facing the man fully when the faded memory dawned on her. Seven hells. While the Inn itself had hardly changed, the smith's apprentice certainly had. The strong boy she had known had grown stronger still. The sword undoubtedly one of his own pieces. 

“They’re not welcome here,” The man replied, stalking closer while the boy nursed his ear in the far corner. “Neither are you.”

“Not even as an old friend?” She wondered, raising an eyebrow in dry amusement as she took a tentative sip of her ale and watched him look her up and down in confusion. “You always were  _ bull-headed. _ ” 

That seemed to do the trick, eyes blown wide with sudden recognition, “Arya?” 

Satisfied with the way his jaw slid open with surprise, Arya offered him a sly smile. He had tied his shaggy black hair back with a knot, like Jon, she thought with approval. And the shadow that had lined his jaw as a boy had grown out with age when he stepped closer. “You look good.” 

“You too…,” he replied clearing his throat as he glanced over her shoulder at the woman, “look good I mean.” 

Unable, and unwilling, to stop the bubble of laughter at that Arya lifted her drink in cheer, “thanks.” 

“You know each other?” The woman said curiously, breaking the spell between them and spurring him into action. Moving to pour his own tankard of ale he took a hearty sip and filled it again for good measure. With a sharp nod Gendry gestured for her to follow him outside away from the woman's prying eyes. “What’re you doing here?” He asked bluntly, facing her again when they were far enough away from the others. 

“I’d ask you the same,” Arya challenged, “I thought you were with the brotherhood.” She knew him well enough to see the way he tensed at the connotation, but she dismissed it. He had been the one to choose them after all, what did she care how he felt. Changing tactics, she took another sip of her ale, “I’m looking for Beric.” a truce, she decided, speaking honestly.

He watched her carefully for a moment over the edge of his cup before taking a long sip, “Thought you were s’possed to marry that Bolton bastard until your brother came back… or is that just another thing you’re running from?” 

Eyebrows knit together at his words Arya stared at him, feeling her own irritation rise at the change in conversation, “Come again?”

Rolling his eyes at her reaction Gendry shook his head, “How stupid do you think I am?” he scoffed, “wouldn’t be the first time you’ve run from something.” 

Her confusion quickly morphed to anger over the implication. It wasn’t her fault she hadn’t stayed with the brotherhood after all. He was the one that had wanted to stay. “I didn’t run. I was taken.” She snapped a little too loudly. 

“Oh yeah? ?” he wondered, cold blue eyes watching her. 

“The hound.” Arya retorted. 

“How convenient,” Gendry deadpanned, finishing his drink with finalty. He had changed in other ways too, she noted quietly. He had always been stubborn, but this -this was different. His anger felt different.  _ Personal _ . 

“Not that it concerns you but most of my family was killed,” She added vehemently in afterthought. “And Jon wouldn’t be stupid enough to desert the Nights Watch.” The words stung to admit in her attempt to hurt him with the final word. 

It seemed to work, his gaze softened fractionally with pity, “You don’t know do you?” When she didn’t respond Gendry sighed, rubbing his eyes tiredly before leaning against the side of the Inn. “I can only speak for what I’ve heard from other travelers. A fortnight ago, on your wedding night, a man by the name of Stark seized the castle with a hundred Northmen for your honor.”

“Impossible,” Arya dismissed. She had seen Robb with her own eyes the night of his wedding. Bran and Rickon had been burned and hung by a traitor. Even if Jon had done such a thing, he was bound by honor and duty. Sworn to the Nights Watch, and a Stark in all but name. Who then was left to seize the castle in her name? 

“Perhaps,” Gendry agreed, though he seemed reluctant to share her sentiment. 

They stood in silence for a long moment, each uncertain of what to say to the other. She would know if one of her brothers still lived, Arya insisted, the wolf's strength came from its pack. But she didn’t have the luxury of believing every rumor a drunken traveler told. “It’s impossible,” she reiterated, as much for her own sake as for his. “Besides, if what you say is true. What reason would I have to run from my home?” 

“I should’ve known,” Gendry mused, raising an eyebrow teasingly when he shook his head suddenly solemn. “It doesn’t matter. When they told me the bride spent days screaming…” His face soured as he trailed off in thought. Arya knew she was meant to say something. But the sudden change in his demeanor was disconcerting. “ I should have been there.” He confessed, swallowing thickly, “I meant to find you.” 

“You couldn’t have known,” Arya replied, stepping closer to regain his attention. “Gendry, look at me.” The guilt in his eyes swallowed her whole. Dragging her down like the perilous ocean tide. “It wasn’t me,” she whispered, voice cracking slightly with the tease. 

He only shrugged off her concern, “Still… If it had been.” 

“It wasn’t,” She cut in firmly, “or have you forgotten me?”

That seemed to pull his spirits up, his lips tilting upwards when his head lifted, “You’re not easily forgotten m’lady.” 

“I told you not to call me that,” Arya shoved him good naturedly as she rolled her eyes. Thankful that the conversation had steered back toward calmer waters. Despite the way her stomach dropped at his words. 

“Besides, you don’t know any other ladies,” she argued. It felt a little too comfortable standing here with him after all these years, arguing like they had as children.  _ He looked good _ , she noted, all too aware of the way his arms strained against the thin fabric of his shirt. 

“I know Lady Stoneheart,” Gendry insisted, piquing her interest before his gaze dropped again. “The Brotherhood’s changed since you left.”

Curious about the way he drifted off in thought Arya pushed the subject, “what about the priest?”

“Gone with Beric,” he explained, “couldn’t stomach the ladies  _ methods _ .” When Arya didn’t interrupt Gendry sighed reluctantly, “They pulled her from the Trident same night as your brother's wedding. When Thoros wouldn’t give her the kiss, Beric insisted he’d do it himself.” He shook his head as if it would rid the memories before sparing her a glance. 

“Why did you stay then?” But the obvious answer stepped out of the Inn carrying a pile of freshly washed clothes. “The two of you…?” It would explain the boys, and the reason why he hadn’t left this place. 

“Who, Willow?” Gendry’s eyes grew wide at the notion before shaking his head in earnest this time, “We’re not, she and I never… ” 

“Haven’t rung her bells?” Arya supplied, resisting a grin at the warmth that spread across Gendry's cheeks at the implication. 

“Never.” He replied a little too quickly. Though it was no concern of hers, the thought that the boys weren’t his was oddly reassuring. “Reckon she still fancies their father. But I reckon he won’t be returning after I caught him hitting her.” Unsure of how to react to the news Arya nodded in solemn agreement. 

“Where’ve you been if not North?” Gendry wondered suddenly, leaving her at a loss for words. 

A complicated question with more complex answers. Something she didn’t have the luxury of explaining. How could she ever hope to explain the tales of Braavos and the friendly man? She wondered idly before dismissing the thought altogether. No, those memories would live and die with her. Even so, this was Gendry, if she couldn’t trust him, who then? 

Instead she settled for something simple, “I sailed east.” Handing him her empty tankard she pulled her coin purse out of her cloak. “Here, for the drinks.” 

“Arya-” 

“This Lady Stoneheart, where can I find her?” She cut in leading the way back toward the hitching post. 

Gendry fell silent, and for a moment she wondered if he would tell her at all. “Last I heard she crossed the twins.” He finally admitted handing her the reins. 

“You could come if you want,” She wasn’t sure what possessed her to make the offer. Maybe the ale had gotten to her after all.  _ You could still be my family _ , the words hung between them unspoken. Arya lifted herself into the saddle in favor of avoiding his gaze. “This Inn won’t survive the winter.” 

“Where are you going?” He countered, blue eyes catching the fading sunlight when he looked up at her. There was a hint of possibility. But when she glanced back towards the woman, Arya knew his answer. 

“North,” Arya replied as she spurred the horse forward. Though she had meant to turn south before. The list would have to wait. Winter was coming, and she had been away long enough. 

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed, please feel free to leave a kudos and comment what your favorite moment was!  
> (mine was writing ~*cocky*~ adult Rickon lmfao)


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